


To the End of Their Days

by flora_tyronelle



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: "Canon with gay flourishes", Although I haven't yet decided on the ending, Although it's just canon in the styling, Because they all deserved better, But many details borrowed from the movies, Dain included, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, It will be better, M/M, Sailing way off canon, Slow Burn, Stylistically like the books, The gay flourishes are all mine, Time Travel Fix-It, so slow, super slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-14 13:06:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10537053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flora_tyronelle/pseuds/flora_tyronelle
Summary: Their voices faded, and Bilbo remembered the contract, clutched in his hand. He screwed up every last inch of his courage and walked forwards.“Here,” He said, holding it out to Balin, who was sat in the chair by the fire on Thorin’s left side, “I think you’ll find it’s all in order.”Balin fished an eyeglass out of his jerkin as the other dwarves stared.“Yes,” He pronounced, after a moment, “All in order. Welcome, Master Baggins, to the company of Thorin Oakenshield.”Bilbo nodded. It seemed appropriate.“I will try to be of as much use as I may,” He said; it had sounded rather grander in his head. From beside the hearth, Thorin’s pale eyes met his.“We shall see, Master Baggins,” Was all he said. “We shall see.”Yes, it's another time-travel fix-it fic. Come and join the madness.





	1. An Unexpected Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected return (to life, to be precise).

Bilbo Baggins awoke feeling utterly wretched. He groaned. Seasick, he supposed, despite the marvellous design of these Elven ships; well, whatever it was, he needed to move, sharpish, else things were like to get very messy indeed.

He staggered to his feet, his eyes squinted up against the piercing light. Morning, he thought, the sort of light that used to fall through the gap in the curtains at Bag End. His stomach gave a nasty heave at the thought.

“Bathroom,” He muttered to himself, and began to fumble his way forwards. All of his joints were aching abominably, but that was nothing new. A Hobbit of a hundred and twenty nine years might well expect a few aches and grumbles.

“Decrepit,” He gasped, “That’s what you are, Bilbo Baggins-”

He clapped a hand to his mouth and hoped it wasn’t much further to the lavatory. Where had the Elves put the dratted thing? His groping hand encountered what felt like a door-jamb, and with a sigh of relief he lurched forwards, and not a moment too soon. After a few moments, the retching had passed, and Bilbo was able to breathe proper. His eyes finally seemed to be adjusting to the light- although his vision had started to deteriorate over the past decade, he could still see well enough to find his way about, and the more light there was the better. The polished white ceramic slowly came into focus.

“Oh, bother,” Bilbo sighed, after a moment. “Hallucinating, to boot. You mad old Baggins! This is _not_ Bag End.”

The taps, shaped with the utmost of Hobbitish skill, remained stubbornly unchanging.

Bilbo had to admit, this was new. Confused and old he might be, but his eyes were simply not good enough to play this kind of trick on him. Hesitantly, he reached one small hand out- and he froze.

His hand was like it had been made new. Well, not quite new, perhaps- there was a small scar on the back of his knuckle that he’d got from the bread ovens down at Bywater when he was forty-one. But there were no wrinkles, and the skin was no longer pale and translucent. Bilbo gaped.

And then he understood.

For a fleeting moment, he stood stock still, utterly confounded. Then he let out a great shout of laughter.

“So, this is it! Hmm?! You’ve snatched me out from under the noses of the Elves. O-ho!” He wagged his finger at the ceiling; the ceiling of his little bathroom in Bag End. “They won’t be best pleased about _that_!”

He quietened for a brief spell.

“I must say, though, this is much nicer than I’d anticipated. Restored to Bag End, and-” He turned about to peer in the mirror that Frodo had smashed in some game with Merry Brandybuck, “- to a respectable age, too!” For indeed, the face that gazed back at him was the face that belonged to a Hobbit of no more than sixty, golden hair curling over his ears and bright eyes gleaming with the light of youth. Bilbo laughed again, almost giddily. “This was not what I had expected _at all_.”

The walls of Bag End did not answer him, but Bilbo supposed one small Hobbit was of little consequence to Mandos himself. He could not stop staring about him, drinking in every half-remembered detail of his cosy little bathroom, before he had-

Blast. That was odd.

Bilbo sniffed, and screwed up his face. Before…

But the memory would not come to him; rather, it hovered in his mind’s eye, like a dandelion puff that danced on the breeze, tantalisingly close yet ever out of reach. Bilbo frowned, and turned his attention back to the ceiling.

“I don’t suppose I could ask you to give this old Hobbit _all_ his memories back?” He asked, crossly. “I’ve already lived with half my life missing for several decades. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to have them back in death.”

There was no answer. Bilbo tapped his foot peevishly, then gave up. The valar probably had larger concerns than a dead Hobbit with a mind like a leaky sieve. He squared his shoulders, and decided that there was only one thing for it.

“Breakfast,” He announced, and marched off.

To his delight, all his clothes were in place in his dresser, and his pantry was comfortably stocked with vittles. He dressed in a waistcoat he had lost just before he had- ach, this memory!- a shirt and a fine pair of trousers, before fetching a loaf of bread, a jar of jam (from the Gaffer’s own damson trees- how on earth that had gotten there, Bilbo did not like to ask) and a hunk of butter from the shelves and carrying the whole lot into the kitchen. It was a fine day, and Bilbo’s heart swelled at the familiar sight of his back garden through the wobbly panes of glass in his kitchen window.

“No need for tears,” He told himself, gruffly, even as his eyes stung dreadfully. “Come on, mad Baggins- there’s tea that wants brewing!”

He ate breakfast at the kitchen table off his best Westfarthing pottery as the sun climbed ever higher over the Shire. Well, Bilbo supposed that it wasn’t exactly the Shire, but as close as may be: a comfortable, familiar place for those Hobbits that had passed on. Perhaps the Gaffer himself was just down the road, making his jam. The thought made Bilbo feel an indescribable combination of happy and sad, so he stopped thinking about it and poured himself another cup of tea. Then another notion occurred to him, and he sat bolt upright.

“I wonder-” He jumped to his feet and bustled away down the corridors of the smial. “Aha!”

The delight was not misplaced, for Bilbo had found his own pipe and supply of leaf, which had been sore hard to come by when he was in- well, wherever he had been before he died. Longbottom leaf, no less. A smile crept across his face. The tea was quite forgotten.

Five minutes later, Bilbo was still poised just behind his front door, one hand wrapped around his pipe, the other reaching out to not quite land on the handle. The trouble was, he wasn’t quite sure what he would find. Would he open it to find the Shire just as it had been? Would it be empty? Would- and at this thought, his heart seized- other Hobbits be about? Would his _parents_ be there, after waiting all these years?

Abruptly, Bilbo seized the handle.

“Better not keep them waiting any longer.” He told himself.

And he pulled the door open.

The Shire was laid out before him in perfect detail; from the rickety fences to the neat little gardens, and- Bilbo could hardly breathe- _other_ _Hobbits_. Just there, on the road, was Farmer Cotton! He was leading an oxen cart up the hill, and he paused to tip his hat to Bilbo.

“Morning, Mr Baggins!”

Bilbo was quite overwhelmed. He waited for Farmer Cotton to exclaim over his presence, or perhaps point him in the direction of somebody who would- after all, it wasn’t every day you _died_ \- but the stout Hobbit simply resumed in tugging on the collar of the butter-coloured cow and together they trundled away. Bilbo gaped after him.

After a few moments, he realised that nobody else was in the immediate vicinity to wish him good morning, and, as he had already mentioned, he was dead. He had eternity to puzzle out these mysteries. He harrumphed, then stumped over to his front bench. He would light his pipe, and sit, and think. That would be quite enough to be getting on with.

He closed his eyes in the sunshine, the familiar taste of smoke filling his mouth as he drew in a breath. His heartrate slowed. It really wasn’t so bad. Shame he hadn’t got to- well, wherever he was going when he’d died. He had the strong feeling he’d been going there with Elves, even though that was _clearly_ absurd. What would Elves want with him?

He pursed his lips and slowly exhaled, a ring of smoke leaving his mouth as though he were some idle dragon with too much time on its hands.

I met a dragon, he remembered, and although he could not say precisely how or where, the memory filled him with disquiet.

He therefore jumped almost out of his skin when something lightly tickled his nose and exploded in a puff of smoke. Spluttering, he opened his eyes: to behold a tall, yet stooped figure, dressed all in grey, and leaning on a staff.

“Gandalf!” He exclaimed, leaping to his feet- the name had come to him in that instant, yet he knew this to be the grey Wizard, the one the Elves called Mithrandir. It was accompanied by distinct feelings of respect, exasperation and affection. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“Why, Bilbo Baggins, I came in on the roads, much as many others do.” The Wizard's deep, slow voice stirred so many memories that Bilbo once again felt quite overwhelmed.

“Oh, don’t riddle me!” He snapped. “I suppose mortal rules don’t apply to you Wizards.” He waved his pipe in the Gandalf’s general direction.

Beneath the broad brim of his hat, however, Gandalf was frowning.

“And what would you know of mortal rules, Mr Baggins?” He asked, gravely. “Or Wizards, for that matter?”

“Well,” Bilbo said, brought up a little short, “I can’t claim to know a great deal of Wizards. But I do know that I am mortal, and that I am dead, and that you are here.”

“Dead?!” Gandalf sounded as though he could not decide whether to be alarmed or amused. “I assure you, Master Baggins, you are not dead. Not yet, at any rate, although I can see your years of respectable living have not done you any favours.”

“Respectable living?!” Bilbo was quite outraged. “I’ll have you know- wait. Wait a minute.” He stared at Gandalf. “What do you mean, not dead?”

“Are you well, Mr Baggins?”

“I- I- no. No. Just answer the question, if you please.” Bilbo’s heart was thundering.

“I don’t know what has come over you, Bilbo Baggins,” The Wizard squinted at him, “But you are not dead. Why, I behold you with my own two eyes! And you have changed much in the last fifty years, and not entirely for the better.”

“You mean to say that we have not met before?” Bilbo had a horrible feeling, but he hoped to prove it wrong. He padded down his front steps.

“We have, although you do not remember it. You may, perhaps, remember my fireworks.”

“Of course…” Bilbo had the troubling sensation of not enough air reaching his lungs.

“Master Baggins?” Gandalf asked, sharply.

“Of course I remember your fireworks,” Bilbo managed, in a very small voice; and that was the last thing he did before he fainted clean away.

~~~

He jerked awake.

“Gandalf!”

For half a moment, he believed it had been a dream: he had dreamed he’d died, or…

“I am here, Master Baggins.” Gandalf’s voice emanated from close by. Bilbo sat up. He was still in Bag End, in his favourite armchair, and the Wizard was watching him carefully from the far corner. “But where are you, I wonder?” He continued, slowly. “Or perhaps, better to ask, where have you been?”

Bilbo could not help it- he flinched.

Gandalf’s face was full of wonder.

“It would seem you are a most unusual Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins,” He said. “And I have never seen the like in all my long years.”

“Gandalf,” Bilbo said, his voice trembling, “What has happened to me?”

“If you had asked me that and you were as I expected, I would have answered- “Nothing, yet!”, and been done with it,” The Wizard replied, “But now I see that to say so would be to do you a disservice… You remember the things you said to me in the front garden?”

Bilbo nodded shallowly.

“Well, that was enough to garner my interest; that, and your fainting spell, although you are a Hobbit and nervous reactions are not uncommon. But still, I was curious… When you were unconscious, I took the liberty of examining you-” Bilbo made an outraged sound, and Gandalf held up his hands, “- Peace, Master Hobbit! I meant in the sense of magic, for magic will leave traces, and the magic that marks _you_ leaves very distinctive traces indeed. I have not laid a hand on you, except to carry you in here.”

There was a brief silence, apart from the sounds of another cart rumbling past the front door.

“So?” Bilbo asked, when he could bear it no longer.

Gandalf regarded him.

“I think,” He said, gravely, “You already know.”

Bilbo shook his head as though he had water in his ears. He felt ill again.

“It can’t be,” He protested feebly.

“And yet, so it is,” Gandalf said. “I would not have believed it, had I not seen it myself.”

Bilbo felt wretched.

“I cannot do it again,” He breathed, “I cannot go through it all again, not knowing what will happen-”

“ _Do_ you know?” Gandalf asked.

Bilbo thought.

“I do not _know_ ,” He said, slowly, “Only that I have such a horrible feeling- oh, why would they have done this? I was _going_ to find peace, I know it, but they plucked me out of that and put me back here- for what? To- to-”

But there were more blanks squatting across his memory, and he could not recall. He made a small groan of frustration.

“I do not know,” Gandalf replied, and his voice was thoughtful as he regarded Bilbo’s small form. “But you can be sure that this is not a gift given lightly. They would not have done it without good reason.”

“And I suppose I just have to go along with it?” Bilbo snapped. Gandalf appeared to have been rendered momentarily speechless. Then he let out a great guffaw of laughter.

“Let it never be said that Hobbits are not courageous!” He chuckled. “Indeed, one is before me who would take his argument to the very makers of the world, for all the wrongs they have done him. Ha!”

Bilbo could admit to the ridiculousness of that, and laughed a little, too. The feelings of horror subsided.

“I’ll just have to make the best of it, I suppose,” He said, and Gandalf nodded.

“Indeed, you will. Now, I have errands elsewhere, and I must leave you. It seems almost foolish to ask-” He paused in the doorway and looked back at Bilbo, “- but can I count on you in this adventure, Mr Baggins?”

A lump rose in Bilbo’s throat.

“Yes,” He managed, eventually. “Yes, you can.”

Gandalf nodded, and then he was gone.

~~~

Bilbo remained in a state of nervous excitement for the rest of the day. He danced through the corridors of his smial. He dug out old treasures long forgotten and exclaimed over the memories they held. The Gaffer, very much alive, came around to cut the grass, and Bilbo nearly hugged him. The world seemed both miraculous and utterly wrong, and he came to almost delight in it.

“ _The world has all gone inside out,_

_And there’s nothing I can do,_

_My home’ll soon be full of thirteen Dwarves,_

_So I’d better put on a stew_.”

He sang to himself, as he bustled around the kitchen, chopping and frying and fussing over quantities. “What was that one about the cat and the moon? Ah yes!

_There’s an inn of old renown,_

_Where they brew a beer so brown._

_Moon came rolling down the hill one Hevnsday night to drink his fill_ …”

The words took a while to come back to him, but come they did, and he hummed happily as a meal that would have done a company of Hobbits very nicely began to take shape and the sky darkened outside.

When the knock finally came on the door, Bilbo was busy setting the table, and he nearly upset the gravy boat with his nervous start.

“Coming!” He called, quickly fussing over his clothes (he had a feeling that last time he had been less than presentable) before trotting to the green front door.

A truly terrifying-looking Dwarf was stood on his porch. Towering over Bilbo, with a shock of black hair that stood straight up from the centre of his head and slung all about with axes, he glowered down at the Hobbit.

“Dwalin,” He growled, “Son of Fundin. At your service.”

And he swept into a bow.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo replied, hoping that his voice did not shake with the weight of emotion behind it, “At yours and your family’s.”

Dwalin sniffed, then marched in.

“Is there food?”

“Plenty. Just down there. And-” He’d just remembered something, “- Weapons at the door, please.” He smiled in a way that he hoped was both firm and courteous.

Dwalin regarded him, then shrugged.

“As you wish, Master Baggins.” He dropped his axes with two heavy thuds onto the bench in the hall, then stomped away in the direction of the dining room.

Bilbo took a moment to breathe, then scurried after him.

They sat in silence as Dwalin ate. Bilbo recalled that the last time this had happened- what a queer thing to think, but there it was- he had been offended, and altogether rude. He had not seen what was so blindingly obvious; Dwalin’s sheer hunger, probably from days spent in the wild, trekking from the Blue Mountains to answer the call.

The call? Bilbo asked himself. What do I mean by that? But he could not remember.

There was another knock at the door, and Bilbo jumped up. Dwalin barely seemed to notice: his attention was entirely taken by the stew.

The Dwarf who waited on the porch this time was far less intimidating, and his name leapt so readily to Bilbo’s mind that he had to stop himself from shouting it out. The mouth above the enormous white beard crinkled into a polite smile, and the Dwarf bobbed into a bow.

“Balin, son of Fundin. At your service.”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo repeated, “At yours and your family’s.”

“Lovely,” Balin pronounced, and he too stepped over the threshold, but before he could say anything else, there was a rumbling cry from down the hallway.

“Brother!”

“Well, hello!” Balin’s smile grew wider as Dwalin advanced towards him, his words seeming to almost dance about in the air, so lively was his tone. “Fancy running into you.”

“Indeed, brother mine,” Dwalin growled, nearly grinning himself. Then Bilbo jumped as they headbutted each other. Dwalin snorted. “Come on, there’s food down here. _He_ insists on weapons at the door.” The warrior jutted his chin towards Bilbo with a disapproving look.

“Aye, and we are in his house, so his rules.” Balin nodded, and removed his daggers from his sleeves. Bilbo inclined his head in thanks, then gestured the pair of them back towards the dining room.

“A good table you keep here, laddie,” Balin said, approvingly, as he seated himself on the bench beside Dwalin.

“Ah- it was the least I could do,” Bilbo said, even as a pleased feeling unfurled itself in his abdomen.

“You can do more than this?” Balin asked, surprised. “My, well, I’ll be visiting Hobbits more often in the future!”

I very much hope so, Bilbo thought, but he kept it to himself. What he said instead was, “Help yourselves.” Then he scurried away before he blurted out something embarrassing.

It was not long before there was once more a rap at the door, and Bilbo leapt up to answer it from where he’d been waiting in the hall. The door swung open; and his breath was almost taken away.

“Fíli,” Said the golden-haired Dwarf, his face serious.

“And Kíli,” Grinned the darker one.

“Sons of Dḯs, at your service,” They said, in unison, and they both bowed low. Bilbo used that brief instant to mop his eyes clean of the inexplicable tears that had formed there.

“Bilbo Baggins, at yours, and at your family’s.” He said, softly, and stepped back to let them in. “Ah! Weapons at the door, if you please.”

“Hear that, Fíli?” Kíli raised his eyebrows.

“I did,” Fíli replied, the same light of mischief coming into his eyes. It was alarmingly Tookish, and Bilbo screwed up his courage.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Kíli asked, and looked to be about to say something else, but Bilbo interrupted him.

“My house, my rules.” He said, firmly, looking from the dark brown of Kíli's glittering eyes to the pale blue of Fíli's.

“Aye!” Came Dwalin’s shout. “Now, stop arguing and get in here. The food’s good!”

Fíli and Kíli shared a look, before unanimously shrugging their way out of the veritable arsenal they both carried, and dumping it all in Bilbo’s arms. Bilbo carefully added their weapons to the growing pile- but before he could follow them down the corridor there was _another_ knock on the door.

“Hold on!” He called, before wrenching it open- and a torrent of Dwarves cascaded onto his welcome mat, Gandalf peering merrily over the top of them. His eyes glittered when they fell upon Bilbo.

“Well met, Master Baggins!” He called. “May I introduce you to these fine Dwarves-” Who were, at that moment, groaning as they picked themselves up off the floor, “- Here we have the three Ri brothers: Dori; Nori and Ori- here is Óin and Glóin, brothers out of the Blue Mountains- up you get, Bombur! Bombur, Bofur and Bifur, the Ur brothers. All-”

“At your service!” The Dwarves chorused, with varying levels of enthusiasm. Bilbo, unable to control himself, bowed.

“Bilbo Baggins,” He said, thickly, “At yours and your family’s. And please, weapons at the door!”

~~~

Bilbo fancied he could arm half of Hobbiton with the collection beside his umbrella stand, and it gave him all the more reason to be relieved at his insistence of them remaining away from drunken hands. He had cracked open the ale cask with the latest arrival, and the beer soon flowed (indeed, in rather more places than he would have liked- but he could worry about the cleaning later), although Gandalf stuck to wine. Bilbo sat unobtrusively beside him as the Dwarves laughed and sang and ate their way through his pantry, and he could not remember being happier. For these Dwarves had been his _friends_ : silver-haired Dori and slippery Nori; Bombur the gigantic and Ori the skinny; Óin  with his ear trumpet and Glóin with his fiery hair; Bifur who spoke not a word of westron; Bofur with his ridiculous hat; cultured Balin; mischievous Fíli, who was only outstripped by Kíli; and even fierce Dwalin, all he had grown to love in his last lifetime. To find he could see them again and love them still was, as Gandalf had said, a gift.

“A song!” Kíli called, jumping up on his chair and balancing with one foot on a serving platter. “We should have a song!”

“Aye!” His fellows cheered, and Gandalf chuckled.

“Does the Wizard know any songs?” Glóin barked, twisting in his seat to peer into the corner. The smile instantly fell from Gandalf’s face; he held up his hands as though to ward off their questioning looks.

“Nay, Master Glóin!” He looked around at them all. “I do not sing.”

Bilbo suddenly sat straight up.

“I know one!” He cried, then wondered why he had said anything. As one, twelve Dwarves turned to stare at him.

“Aye, laddie, let’s hear it,” Glóin prompted, when the surprised silence had stretched for quite long enough. Bilbo cleared his throat.

“ _Blunt the knives_ ,” He began, his voice slightly quavering, because the tune was not familiar to him and yet it tumbled out of his mouth anyway, “ _Bend the forks, Smash the bottles and burn the corks! Chip the glasses and crack the plates…_

_That’s what every Hobbit hates_!”

Fíli began to sing down the far end of the table, words that Bilbo both knew and did not know- they were like the words of a childhood lullaby, long since forgotten, yet never truly erased.

“Cut the cloth and tread on the fat-”

Kíli chimed in.

“Pour the milk on the pantry floor!”

The other Dwarves began to raise their voices, too, and how each knew what the others would come up with was quite beyond Bilbo- but it was a marvel to watch.

“ _Leave the bones on the bedroom mat!_

_Splash the wine on every door_!”

Bilbo did not see who started it, but somebody had tossed their plate, and suddenly the air was full of flying crockery and the sound of heavy boots stamping out the beat of the song. Bofur had produced a flute from somewhere, and its high trill interwove with the Dwarves’ rumbling voices.

“ _Dump the crocks in the boiling bowl!_

_Pound them up with a thumping pole!_

_And when you’ve finished, if any are whole…_

_Send them down the hall to roll_!”

Indeed, Bilbo’s plates were seeing far more activity than they ever had in their long lives, rolling and spinning through the air as the Dwarves demolished the mess strewn about the dining table.

“ _That’s what every Hobbit hates_!” Bilbo sang above them, “ _So carefully, carefully, with the plates_!”

There was a general cheer as the final mug span into place in the tower of (now clean) crockery, and Bilbo laughed along with them.

“A good song, Master Baggins-” Bofur began, “I wonder if-”

But he was interrupted, by a bang on the door.

Silence fell. Balin looked around at them all.

“He’s here,” Was all he said, and Bilbo’s heart jumped. He got hastily to his feet.

The Dwarves all followed as he hurried towards the front door; their silence was almost unnerving, after the chaos of their meal. The door juddered under another blow as he came up to the other side, and he tried not to flinch.

He gripped the handle, and pulled it open. The Dwarf on the other side looked back towards him slowly, his eyes glittering like polished gems in the lamplight. In that instant, Bilbo was fairly certain that nothing that made up the poor, tired body of this Hobbit actually functioned in any way at all.

Then Gandalf announced, in a relieved sort of voice, the name that Bilbo had not realised he had forgotten.

“Thorin Oakenshield. At last.”

That collection of syllables had the strangest effect of restarting all of Bilbo’s processes, and he drew in a shuddering breath. The Dwarf ignored him; instead, he looked up at Gandalf as he stepped inside. Bilbo was close enough to smell the cooler air on his clothes, and to privately marvel at the cascade of black hair that tumbled all over his shoulders. He quietly shut the door, and tried to pull himself together.

“I had some trouble finding the place,” The Dwarf, Thorin, admitted, his voice somehow like a river running and gravel shifting all at once. “I missed it thrice in the dark. You did not make it easy for us, Master Gandalf.”

Gandalf’s mouth twitched.

“Finding burglars is not easy, Thorin Oakenshield,” He said, in a slight tone of admonishment.

“And have you?” Thorin wanted to know. Bilbo froze in place, his back against the door, as all the Dwarves peered at him. Thorin turned back to eye him again. The harsh lines of his face did not soften.

“Him?” He said, eventually. He did not have to say any more. Bilbo tried to think of a retort, but Thorin was already speaking again. “Is there any food?”

“Indeed there is,” Balin said, hastily. “But what news from the Iron Hills? Will they aid us?”

Thorin did not answer; but he looked at the pile of weapons leaning against Bilbo’s wall, and grunted. Then he moved forward, and the Dwarves parted to let him past. Gandalf looked to Bilbo with an unreadable expression, before letting out a sigh and following the others. Bilbo was left to himself for a few moments, and he was glad of it. _Thorin Oakenshield_. Thorin. _I knew him, I knew him so well_.

~~~

When Bilbo had finally gathered himself, the Dwarves were once more seated in his kitchen, wreathed in pipe smoke as Thorin pushed away the last of the stew.

“They will not come.”

Silence greeted his words.

“Ah well, lad.” Balin wore the expression of one who is so inured to disappointment that yet another blow is expected, rather than feared. “You tried.”

Thorin said nothing, but from behind him, Bilbo could see the fury tightening up in his broad shoulders.

Gandalf coughed.

“Do not lose heart,” He told the assembled, “We are not yet at the end of our resources.”

“Aye,” Dwalin said, blackly, “Thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit, knocking on the door of Erebor. I’m sure that’ll end happily.”

“Now, Master Dwalin, you must have a little more faith than that!” Gandalf told him, sternly. “You have a Wizard amongst you, do not forget.”

“Aye, a Wizard versus a dragon!” Bofur chimed in, and Nori called out, “What are the odds on that?”

“Do not be foolish,” Gandalf snapped, and silence fell once more. “I do not mean to knock at the gates.”

From inside his cloak, the Wizard drew forth a tattered and folded piece of parchment. He looked around.

“A little more light, please, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo hastened to fetch a candelabrum, even as his heart pounded to a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like “ _Dragon, dragon, dragon_.”

Gandalf carefully opened up the parchment, and Bilbo at once saw it was a map.

“Far to the east,” The Wizard intoned, his fingers spreading across the carefully inked features, “Over rivers and ranges, through woodlands and wastelands, lies a solitary peak.”

Bilbo had just deciphered the old-fashioned runes.

“The- Lonely- Mountain.”

That name, too, felt familiar on his tongue. Blast it, was that how it would be, every piece of information falling into some terrible, pre-ordained pattern? The Dwarves did not seem to notice his consternation.

“Aye,” Whispered Dori.

“Our home,” Said Balin, with a kind of fervid longing.

“The birds have been returning!” Glóin said, banging his fist on the table. “The time is ripe!”

“If we had reinforcements, maybe, but-”

“The mountain is _ours_ -”

“You think I don’t know that, laddie? You don’t know the _first_ -”

“Have all of you forgotten the tiny matter of the _dragon_? I don’t expect he’ll be thrilled with Dwarves on his doorstep-”

“What, so we just walk away? Abandon Erebor? I-”

“That was the home of my fathers-”

“And mine, but mine would nay be pleased with some fool’s quest to lead us to death and ruin!”

Bilbo dropped his head into his hands. _Dragon_. His stomach squirmed in fear.

Thorin suddenly looked up.

“ _Shazara_!” He roared. The bickering Dwarves instantly shut up.

Gandalf took advantage of it.

“There is another way in,” He said, and Thorin whipped his head around to look at him.

“That way was lost,” He said, and his voice was hoarse with terrible memory. “A secret door, locked forever when we fled Erebor.”

Gandalf shook his head slightly, and from under his cloak, he drew out a heavy, ornate metal key. Thorin’s eyes widened. Gandalf held it out.

“This is yours, Thorin, son of Thráin.”

Bilbo was close enough to see a tiny shudder run through Thorin as his fingers closed around the key. Gandalf was speaking again.

“This map will tell us how to enter the mountain. See here? _When the thrush knocks, in the last light of Durin’s day, the keyhole will be revealed_.”

“Riddles!” Óin growled. Bifur said something in the dwarven tongue that Bilbo did not recognise but had a strong suspicion was very rude. Argument once again broke out over his dining table.

“ _Shazara_!” Thorin called them back to order. A strange light was shining in his eyes. He turned his attention on Bilbo, who tried to stand firm. “Well, Master Burglar, are you with us?”

Bilbo swallowed. He fully meant to say, “Yes!” in a stout sort of way, but his voice betrayed him on the way up to his mouth and what slipped out was something that sounded rather more like, “Dragon?” In a very feeble tone indeed.

“Aye,” Bofur said, cheerfully. “That’d be Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age.” When Bilbo did not seem to understand, he elaborated. “Air-borne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat-hooks, extremely fond of precious metals…”

“Yes, I know what a dragon is,” Bilbo replied, with something of his usual vigour.

“That’s settled then,” Balin said, and he reached into his pocket to draw out an enormous tract of paper. “Just needs your signature, for the formalities.”

_The contract_ , Bilbo realised, and he nearly gasped. With a trembling hand, he reached out and took it from Balin, reading through the words that rose to meet him almost as though he had written them himself.

It was, on top of everything else, far too much. Bilbo got to his feet, the reams of neat handwriting swimming before his eyes, and then everything once again faded to black.

~~~

“You’re quite alright?”

“Yes, yes.” Bilbo batted the Wizard away. There was no sign of the Dwarves; the contract lay open on the table, the space at the bottom merely awaiting his signature.

“They think you mean not to go,” Gandalf said, calmly, puffing on his pipe. Bilbo let out a half-hearted laugh.

“Can I blame them?”

“They will grow used to you.” Gandalf softened slightly. Bilbo supposed by ‘They’, he meant ‘Thorin’.

He sniffed and squared his shoulders.

“Yes. They will.” And he marched off to find a pen.

~~

The Dwarves were in his sitting room. From the doorway, Bilbo could see them arranged around the room: sat on his furniture, or leaning against the walls. Thorin stared into the fire as though wondering if it would swallow him whole. Bilbo was just about to make his presence known, when Thorin began to sing. The others hummed in harmony, and it was the sound the earth might make as it crafted its great works.

“ _Far over Misty Mountains cold,_

_To dungeons deep,_

_And caverns old._

_We must away,_

_Ere break of day._

_To find our long- forgotten gold_.”

Other voices joined Thorin’s in the words, ebbing and flowing and rumbling in Bilbo’s chest.

“ _The pines were roaring,_

_On the height._

_The winds were moaning,_

_In the night._

_The fire was red,_

_It flaming spread._

_The trees like torches,_

_Blazed with light_.”

Their voices faded, and Bilbo remembered the contract, clutched in his hand. He screwed up every last inch of his courage and walked forwards.

“Here,” He said, holding it out to Balin, who was sat in the chair by the fire on Thorin’s left side, “I think you’ll find it’s all in order.”

Balin fished an eyeglass out of his jerkin as the other Dwarves stared.

“Yes,” He pronounced, after a moment, “All in order. Welcome, Master Baggins, to the company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

Bilbo nodded. It seemed appropriate.

“I will try to be of as much use as I may,” He said; it had sounded rather grander in his head. From beside the hearth, Thorin’s pale eyes met his.

“We shall see, Master Baggins,” Was all he said. “We shall see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who answered my question RE the creation of hobbits. Essentially, nobody knows. *throws hands up in despair* Still, I think it's feasible that Bilbo would have heard about Mandos during his long years at Rivendell and presumed he must have passed into his care.
> 
> And thank you to every single person who has given it a chance and got this far! I would love to chat to you in the comments :)


	2. Darkening Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We must away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, don't stab me Tolkien scholars, but here is where we wave bye-bye to canon and plunge into the murky realms of guesswork and approximation. I maintain that it's not my fault JRR didn't include a scale on his maps. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. (UPDATE: thank you for not stabbing me and instead being helpful and lovely, I am indebted to you all)  
> This chapter has seen an update on 07/04/17 so if you read it before then, there is now new content and new songs (!).
> 
> (Also sorry for any and all appalling Khuzdul)
> 
> Anyway the response to this fic has blown my mind? Like over fifty kudos already that is INSANE and I'm so grateful to all of you for clicking on this and joining the craziness.
> 
> Without further ado, let's get into this!

Gandalf was not pleased.

“Did you not hear their song, Master Baggins?” He demanded, as Bilbo came puffing up the road towards the sign of the Green Dragon. ““Ere break of day”, and yet the sun showed her face nigh on an hour ago!”

“I’m, dreadfully, sorry,” Bilbo wheezed, “Couldn’t, find, a handkerchief.”

“A _handkerchief_!” Gandalf exclaimed, “Believe me, Master Baggins, the perils you will face will none of them be solved by a pocket handkerchief!”

Bilbo could not, in fact, explain it, not even to himself- for although he had risen early enough to greet the sun as she climbed above the horizon, he had been just about to set off out of the door when he felt such a pang of sudden emptiness that he had been reduced to tearing the smial apart in search of a neat scrap of cloth.

“It seemed important,” Was all he said, rather lamely. Gandalf shook his head.

“Well, you would know, I suppose. Follow me; they’ve nearly left without you three times already…”

Bilbo trotted at Gandalf’s heels as they rounded the corner of the inn and entered the stable-yard.

“At last,” Balin called, sounding mighty relieved. Bilbo felt the hot scorch of shame rise in his gullet, and he looked at his toes.

“I am dreadfully sorry,” He began, but a harsh voice cut across his apology.

“We’re wasting time! Get him a pony; we should have left an hour ago.”

Bilbo did not have to look at Thorin to picture the glower on his face- he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. Then he realised quite what Thorin had said.

“A pony?” He shook his head vehemently. “Oh, no. That won’t be necessary, I’m sure…”

“Here,” Bofur said, taking Bilbo’s elbow and cheerfully ignoring every protest as they marched across the yard, “You can have Myrtle.”

“Mount up!” Thorin called. The other Dwarves leapt into motion; Bilbo only stared at the (in his mind, rather grumpy looking) chestnut pony in mute horror. She merely stood there, swishing her tail in occasional irritation at the midges. Bilbo peered around at the saddle: it seemed an awfully long way up.

“Ah, excuse me,” He said, “Hi! How do I-?”

In an instant, some great unseen force had seized him from behind and plucked him into the air, before shoving him, flailing legs and pack and all, onto the pony’s back. A harsh word of dwarvish accompanied it, which was how Bilbo knew it to be Bifur who had offered the peculiar sort of assistance.

“What did he say?” Bilbo wondered aloud. Botheration, saddles were a discomfort he had _not_ forgotten. To his surprise, somebody answered him.

“He said, “Devangyshele”.” Ori told him, kindly. “Means “good luck”.”

Bilbo did not think it had been meant in a kind way.

“Ride on!” Thorin commanded, and the company fell in behind his shaggy bay (Bilbo surreptitiously gripping onto the saddle tight with both hands and trusting Myrtle to follow the others) as the painted green dragon creaked overhead in the morning breeze. They were underway.

~~~

They kept to the road as they wended their way through the Shire; an experience that was not a little excruciating for Bilbo. Hobbits were a curious lot as a rule, and the sight of one of their fellows mounted on a _pony_ , in the company of _Dwarves_ , was enough to set tongues wagging from Michael Delving to the Marish. As they rode, many stopped to stare. Others called their children to their gates and held them close as they goggled. The Dwarves seemed completely unconcerned, and Bilbo envied them.

The inns they stayed at had been frequented by Bilbo on occasion, but no form of incentive existed that could tempt him into the common room after meal times- instead he would retreat back to their rooms and lie in the darkness, praying he would fall asleep before the Dwarves came crashing back in (or, even worse, fell asleep themselves- Bilbo was sure their snores could shake the plaster from the walls). It was therefore no surprise that the Dwarves thought him surly, and made no efforts to include him in their talk as they clopped slowly down the roads under sunshine and cloud. Bilbo soon began to hear the sound of hoofbeats in his dreams.

The sound, however, was entirely the least offensive thing about riding. At the end of each day, Bilbo could not just hear the evidence of their journeys, but he could feel it in the form of pain in almost every muscle he had (and some he had not before been aware of). Thankfully, they seemed to be in no great hurry at the moment, but Bilbo dreaded the time when Thorin would insist they pick up the pace: he had yet to fall off, and he was not looking forward to it. The only advantage to riding, however, was that they made surprisingly good time (although Bilbo still privately maintained he could have kept up on foot). Bywater, Frogmorton, the far-away haze of the Marish all passed them by until, on the evening of the fifth day, they came to the Brandywine Bridge.

Bilbo gazed over the parapet at the ponies trundled steadily across. The roads were, at last, quiet (it being time for vittles, and every self-respecting Hobbit knew that the consumption of food took priority over curiosity) and the only sound was that of birds calling in the sparse trees and the soft thuds of the ponies’ hooves. The setting sun lent the wide river a burnished quality as it flowed away on either side of the great stone bridge, and Bilbo’s breath nearly caught in his throat, though whether it was for the sight or the journey or something else altogether, he could not say.

They found an inn in Buckland (where Bilbo was well-known, and he nearly hid under the table whenever distant cousins and over-friendly relatives came bustling over); shortly after Bilbo had retired, Gandalf returned to their rooms in high dudgeon.

“Hobbits!” He exclaimed, “The news of thirteen Dwarves by the Brandywine is on the lips of nigh-on every creature west of Bree! If this is only the beginning of the rumour it will be a wonder if our quest is not heard of in Gondor before the month is out!”

Thorin stood up sharply.

“We leave the road tomorrow,” He said, grimly. “I will not take that chance.”

Gandalf nodded.

“A wise decision; I shall see that you are not led astray. Now, sleep! We must be away before the cock crows in the morn, so none see us leave.”

Bilbo did not sleep well that night.

~~~

In the event, the wilds were not so terrible as Bilbo had expected. Gandalf took the head of the column and led them north-east: he told them he was striking for the gap between the North Downs and the Weather Hills. Bilbo had been brought up to think of these lands as untamed and unforgiving, but spring had come here just as it had everywhere else, and they rode in turn through small copses of beech and fields of wildflowers, with the insects humming happily all around. Bilbo could not help but find his spirits lifted, and his solemnity and silence began to melt away. From his uncomfortable perch on Myrtle’s back, he could see the tumbledown stones that littered their surroundings: tokens of an ancient people, although who they had been was a mystery Bilbo was not party to. Gandalf probably knew, Bilbo thought, but the Wizard was rarely in earshot; so he had to content himself with looking, and wondering, and then gripping onto the saddle whenever he took fright that he might fall off.

It was during one such reverie, as they crossed a grassy meadow between the rolling downs, that the Dwarves lifted their voices in song.

“ _The hills are tall,_

_The grass is green,_

_The ponies’ ears watch things unseen._

_We ride, we ride, in the morn we ride,_

_To our long-forgotten gold._

_Our packs are fat,_

_But our hearts are light,_

_We’ll sing our songs from dawn ‘til night._

_We ride! We ride! In the morn we ride,_

_To our long-forgotten gold._

_The mountain’s steep,_

_The snow is cold,_

_We number few-”_

“And Gandalf’s old!”

“Who said that?” The Wizard demanded, but the Dwarves finished their song as though they had not heard.

“ _We ride! We ride! This morn we ride,_

 _To our long-forgotten gold_.”

“That’s quite enough of that,” Gandalf said, sharply. “It would not do for others to hear of your quest. Why do you think I led you all off the road? Secrecy is of the utmost importance!”

Fíli and Kíli immediately began to bicker over the apportioning of blame. Nori asked for bets on who would land the first blow, and the talk grew louder.

“Begging your pardons, Master Gandalf,” Dori piped up, and Ori said, “We were only making a rhyme.”

Gandalf’s eyes flashed, then settled into something closer to a twinkle.

“Aye, Master Dori. And I am old! That charge cannot be denied. However,” He said, in a louder tone, “In all my years, I have learned one thing.”

“What’s that?” Kíli broke off attempting to wrestle his brother into a headlock.

“Never to mock a Wizard!” And with that, Gandalf urged his horse onwards, cantering away to the head of the column. Behind him, a fresh argument broke out over who was to blame for that particular piece of tomfoolery.

Lagging behind ( _far_ behind), Bilbo chuckled to himself. He himself had enjoyed the song- at least it had taken his mind off the infernal business of riding, which was quickly proving to be quite enough of a trial to be getting on with. Still, at least Myrtle seemed the quiet sort, and perhaps he wouldn’t make quite such an ass of himself as might have been expected.

Not five minutes later, a partridge launched itself upwards through the middle of the party, and the ponies shied and danced as its fat little body lurched into the sky: the commotion apparently reminded Myrtle of the distance between her and her fellows, and she took it upon herself to reunite them as swiftly as possible. To Bilbo’s chagrin, she did not take the same care with him, and he was left winded in the grass as she scuttled away up the path shedding bedrolls and saucepans. The Dwarves, of course, were in fits- all except for Thorin, who treated Bilbo with, if it were possible, even more disdain than before, and not even Nori’s attempt at opening a book for Bilbo’s next accident could raise a smile on his grim face.

(There were five-to-one odds on Bilbo parting company with Myrtle within the next hour, and three-to-one on an incident occurring within the next day. Betting on either, as it turned out, generated a not inconsiderable return.)

It was therefore a very sore and severely embarrassed Hobbit that slithered down from Myrtle’s saddle at the end of that first day in the wilds. Indeed, Bilbo was so sore he could barely move, and there were yet more sniggers as he hobbled across to the horse lines to secure Myrtle’s bridle.

“Not like that!” A gruff voice exclaimed, as Bilbo tried to tie a knot that resembled the others and failed abysmally.

“You astound me,” Bilbo muttered, and gave up.

Glóin rounded the rump of his pony (May, or was it Dibble?), a frown on his fierce face.

“You go round the pole, then pull the loop through. See?” The Dwarf’s thick fingers were surprisingly nimble. At Bilbo’s expression, he sighed. “I’ll show you again.”

After several atrocious attempts, Bilbo managed a decent knot. He felt extraordinarily proud of it. Glóin let out a grunt and trudged away, leaving Bilbo among the ponies.

~~~

Around the fire that night, the talk was nearly as boisterous as it had been at Bilbo’s table. He supposed it was because they were still close to the Shire- when they departed for more dangerous lands, they would all have to be a deal more cautious. As it was, the Dwarves cracked jokes (and skulls, which Bilbo still found deeply unnerving) and sang, although Bilbo noted that there were no more jokes about the Grey Wizard in their never-ending stream of verses. This was the first time Bilbo had sat with them since they had left his smial: once again, he kept to the outer edges, puffing on his pipe and wincing every time he moved his legs.

In a lull in the conversation, Balin turned courteously towards him.

“Are you injured, Master Baggins? You had a, ah, interesting afternoon.”

Bilbo had the sense that every Dwarf within earshot was holding back a hearty guffaw, so he forced back the scowl that threatened to decorate his face.

“Well, there’s not much call for ponies in the Shire,” He said, his good-humour sounding stiff to his own ears. “I have ridden a cow though.”

“Really?” Bofur asked, sounding genuinely interested, and Bilbo hastily worked to undo his words.

“It was once. Barely once. At the harvest festival, along with half the children in Hobbiton.” He grinned tightly and sucked vigorously on his pipe, hoping to deflect attention. His words, however, had the opposite effect.

“Are there many Hobbit children, then?” Balin asked. Bilbo looked to him, surprised.

“Of course!” Then it dawned on him. “Are there not many- Dwarf children?”

“Dwarflings,” Óin answered him, “And no, laddie.”

“We are a race made to endure,” Balin told him, not without sadness, “Not grow.”

“Oh,” Was all Bilbo could think to say.

“Still,” Óin said, brightening, “There’s your lad, Glóin. Wee Gimli.”

“Aye.” Glóin seemed to nigh-on swell with pride. “My wee star, and a finer dwarrow you could not find- present company excepted, of course. He wanted to come with us, you know, but I forbade it. This sort of quest is not for a dwarrow of sixty.”

The others nodded, but Bilbo made a noise of surprise.

“Sixty?” He asked, “Sorry, did you say “Sixty”?!”

“Aye! A mere stripling!” Glóin’s tone was that of shared bemusement. “Still, I can’t blame him. The quest calls to all of us.”

Bilbo did not understand that last part- he lapsed back into silence as the Dwarves found other threads of conversation. Gandalf drifted over and lit his pipe beside him.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo said, quietly, “How long do Dwarves live?”

Gandalf cast him a side-long look.

“You have been talking with them? Good. And in answer to your question, Dwarves can live for centuries. A Dwarf who has not yet reached a hundred is still considered rather young.”

Bilbo gaped.

“I did not remember that,” He muttered, when he had the words. This time, Gandalf’s look was censorious.

“You would do well not to speak of that at all Master Baggins!” He said, very softly. “It is not for others to know.”

Bilbo could see the right of it, but his heart sank. The words piled up behind his tongue; for he _did_ remember this, sitting around the fire that spat sparks up to meet the stars as deep voices rumbled all around him. It was a memory of strangeness; discomfort and fear and joy all mixed together, but it was a _memory_ , and Bilbo treasured it. But he did as Gandalf had advised, and kept it to himself.

~~~

The next morning, they were up with the birds as the sun poked tentative tendrils of light across the cottony stretches of clouds. The Dwarves were not overly talkative as they readied the ponies- the quiet of early morning seemed to drape itself over all. It did not, however, dispel Bilbo’s unease as he eyed Myrtle’s saddle.

“Foot in the stirrup, laddie! Look lively!” Glóin, already mounted, came up behind. “Aye, the bit your feet go in. No, not that leg! You’ll be looking over her rump!”

“Ach, Glóin!” Kíli groaned, reining up his sturdy grey to watch, “You should have let him!”

Bilbo shot a glare at the grinning dark-haired Dwarf and swapped to balance on his other leg. After a moment of wobbling, he managed to hop and drag himself up to sit behind Myrtle’s withers. He felt rather pleased with himself, before he realised Fíli was doubled over with laughter and the others were not much better. Glóin wiped away a tear from under his eye.

“She’s not a haystack, lad! All the same, at least you’re up.”

Thorin gave the order to ride on, and Bilbo was left with the strangest feeling: for he was sure the stone-faced Dwarf had been laughing at him, and whilst he knew he _ought_ to be offended, his overwhelming emotion was simple joy at the fact that Thorin was capable of laughter at all. He then roundly called himself a fool, and focused on keeping up with the others a little better than he had managed yesterday.

He did not fall off until the sun was at her highest, and considered that an achievement.

The Dwarves, despite Gandalf’s chiding, did not cease in their singing as the ponies covered the slow, rolling miles of hill and vale. In the hours spent in their company, Bilbo learned to distinguish each voice in the fray of music; Fíli’s solemn baritone, Nori’s quavering notes and Dwalin’s surprisingly light tone. And yet, when he listened for the voice that sounded like water poured over stone, he never heard it. It seemed Thorin’s singing was done.

“Master Baggins!” Dori chirped, in the late afternoon when clouds had moved across to hide the face of the sun, “Would you give us a song?”

“Ah! Hm!” Bilbo coughed and shook the reins in an awkward fashion. Thankfully, Myrtle did not take umbrage at the gesture. “I would never presume to- ah- compete with Dwarves on that subject!”

“Nay, laddie. The old rhymes grow stale after a while,” Bombur said, matter-of-factly. “And a song always makes the time go faster.”

Bilbo could not think of any further way to refuse and still be polite. His mind, however, utterly deserted him. He could not think of a single song; although he had learned many in his long and respectable life (and presumably he knew a good deal more from his ‘first time around’, although those seemed all denied to him), apart from that dratted half-rhyme he had cooked up in the kitchen the day the Dwarves had arrived on his doorstep.

“Ah! I do know one.” Finally, the song had come to him. “It’s nothing of any great import, mind you.”

“And Dwalin’s atrocious rhyming is?” Kíli said, with rather more cheek than Bilbo thought was healthy. All the same, he shrugged, and broke into the familiar tune.

_“There’s an inn of old renown,_

_Where they brew a beer so brown._

_Moon came rolling down the hill_

_One Hevnsday night to drink his fill!_

_On a three-string fiddle there,_

_Played the Ostler’s cat so fair,_

_The horn_ _éd cow that night was seen_

_To dance a jig upon the green._

_Called by the fiddle, to the middle of the muddle_

_Where the cow with a caper_

_Sent the small dog squealing._

_Moon in a fuddle went to huddle by the griddle_

_But he slipped in a puddle and the world went reeling,_

_Downsides went up, hey!_

_Outsides went wide,_

_As the fiddle played a twiddle_

_And the moon slept,_

_‘Til Sterrenday._

_Upsides went west, hey!_

_Broadsides went boom._

_With a twiddle on the fiddle in the middle by the griddle,_

_And the moon slept ‘til Sterrenday!_

_Dish from off the dresser pranced,_

_Found a spoon and gaily danced._

_The horses neighed and champed their bits,_

_For the bloodshot moon had lost his wits._

_Well, cow jumped over, dog barked wild,_

_While the moon lay prone and sweetly smiled!_

_Ostler cried “Play faster, cat!”_

_Because we all want to dance like that!_

_Gambol and totter ‘til you’re hotter than a hatter,_

_And you spin all akimbo like a windmill flailing,_

_Whirl with a clatter ‘til you scatter every cotter and the strings start a-pinging_

_As the world goes sailing!_

_Downsides go up, hey!_

_Outsides go wide._

_You can clatter_

_With your platter,_

_But the moon slept ‘til Sterrenday._

_Upsides go west, hey!_

_Broadsides go boom._

_With a batter and a clatter you can shatter every platter but the moon slept,_

_‘Til Sterrenday!”_

The Dwarves were, to Bilbo’s surprise, very taken with the song. They soon had all the words taken to heart and began work on arranging it for their own, deeper voices, all the while insisting he sing them more Hobbitish rhymes for them to memorise. In return, their manner towards him altered from mere amusement to something approaching friendship. Bilbo found common ground in the matter of vittles with Bombur; listened with interest to Balin’s long tracts on dwarven politics; and failed spectacularly when Bofur tried to teach him to play the flute. Bilbo even fancied he was getting better at understanding Bifur, although the shock-haired Dwarf rarely spoke to him.

On a fine sunny day, when Bilbo had just clambered back into the saddle after an embarrassingly minor fall (Myrtle had stopped suddenly to tear up mouthfuls of the long grass), he suddenly lifted his voice in song.

“ _Thirteen Dwarves set out to ride,_

_A fine young Hobbit by their side,_

_To mountain far,_

_Sleep under star,_

_For glory, honour, and for pride._

_A Wizard tall and dressed in grey,_

_Was with them each and every day,_

_Oh, Mithrandir!_

_Oh, Mithrandir!_

_We hope you always know the way_.

 

_Through brightest day and darkest night,_

_Their stoutness always shone a light,_

_The Dwarves are brave!_

_The Dwarves are brave!_

_Their homeland now they ride to save!”_

“A fine song, Master Baggins!” Gandalf called, “And a fine way to celebrate! For we have just now crossed the ancient road to Fornost- the cairn by the wayside marks the line. This is, I suspect, rather further than you have ever travelled before, and still there are many miles to be crossed!”

Bilbo blinked. “I have been to Bree once, you know,” He said, lightly. But his insides were churning, although he could not have said why.

They rode on, and on. And _on_. Bilbo was already heartily sick of riding, and whilst he became a little better at keeping Myrtle between his backside and the ground, he decided he would never be comfortable in the saddle. Occasionally, Glóin would ride alongside and try to teach him, if not finesse, then at least a level of basic skill. His attempts mostly proved futile. As Bilbo argued (determinedly, and often), Hobbits were simply not designed for mucking about on horses. But for all his protestations, he was growing fonder of his mount- Myrtle, despite reminding him of his lack of bounce every so often, was not in herself malicious, and could be rather sweet when Bilbo tended to her morning and night.

The country grew ever wilder. Rather than the neat copses and gurgling streams of the Shire, they passed through crags and hilltops bare of anything besides the most stunted trees. They picked their way through ravines and mazes of boulders that seemed to have been tossed hither and thither as though giants had been playing a game of marbles. The forests whose eaves they skulked under were taller, and older, and a little more frightening that anything that could be found back at home. All the same, Bilbo found the ache for his smial lessening slightly under the weight of wonder he found in the new and ever-changing surroundings.

The weather, too, was as varied as the landscape- one day they would ride the whole day basking in sunshine; the next spent shrunken miserably under hoods as the rain poured down. One day, a storm came down and raged around them as the ponies soldiered on down the muddy flume that had once been a track. That was the first day Bilbo did not fall off, although he flinched at every clap of thunder and sheet of lightning that draped itself across the horizon. They trekked on through the downpour until they gained the shelter of an outcrop of boulders, and Thorin finally ordered them to make camp. The ponies turned their rumps to the wind and hunkered down as darkness fell and, to Bilbo’s relief, the rain finally began to dissipate.

“Fíli, Kíli, Ori, first watch,” Thorin ordered. “Dwalin, with me on second. Óin, take third with Nori.”

Bilbo had noticed that- Thorin would always take second watch. He wasn’t sure why. Pondering the question idly, he laid out his bedroll and lay down to sleep.

He did not sleep. Although it was dry, and his blankets snug, he could not seem to stop his mind running in circles. Each and every noise began to annoy him, too, until he was lying in the dark with his eyes wide open, chewing over his irritation like a dog gnawing a bone as Bombur’s rumbling snore filled the air. Vexed, Bilbo thrust back his covers and got to his feet. Over by the remnants of the fire, the shadowy shapes of the Dwarves on first watch took little and less notice of him. Bilbo felt in his pocket and smiled.

“Shhh,” He murmured to the pony, gently scrubbing a palm across her forehead as her teeth crunched around the apple, “Don’t tell the others, hm? Our little secret.” Myrtle did not answer him, but chewed on her treat enthusiastically. All around, the other ponies shifted a little, as though sensing their fellow was receiving preferential treatment.

“Sorry!” Bilbo whispered, as Diggle nudged his arm, and Minty let out a soft whicker. “No, I am sorry, but that’s all there is. Take it up with your riders, don’t blame-”

But Bilbo did not finish his sentence. A high, wavering, spine-chilling sound had drifted over the hillside, carried on an easterly breeze. Bilbo’s head shot up, and he jumped out of the pony lines.

“What was that?!” He hissed. It came again, even as his words faded into nothingness. It sounded- well, like a howl.

Fíli looked up from where he was sat by the fire. His face was bathed in an orange glow, and his eyes glittered.

“Orc pack,” He answered. Kíli looked up at his words.

“An _orc_ pack?!” Bilbo could not quite believe what he was hearing. This was _not_ what he had signed up for, second time around or no.

“Aye,” Kíli said, quietly. “There’ll be hundreds out there. Throat-slitters. The lowlands are crawling with them.”

“Vicious things,” Fíli’s voice was simultaneously calm and threatening, and if Bilbo weren’t half-insensible with fear, he would have noted that it was the same tone they took with Hobbit children being read a scary bedtime story. “You’ll never see them coming.”

“Won’t even knock you out,” Kíli agreed. “Just sneak up behind you and-” He drew his finger in a swift, slicing motion across his throat. Bilbo visibly flinched.

“ _Shazara_.”

Bilbo jumped all over again; but Thorin was already emerging from the shadows, fury etched into every line of his face.

Fíli and Kíli’s expressions fell as one.

“Orcs are no laughing matter,” Thorin continued. A deep kind of pain seemed to run through his voice. He looked away, then prowled back to the ponies, drawing the night over him like a cloak. Fíli and Kíli watched him go with identical expressions of heartfelt contrition. Bilbo felt an unexpected pang for them.

“Don’t worry, lads,” Balin’s voice came softly over the fire as he sat up in his bedroll. Terrible meaning weighed in his every word. “Thorin has more reason than most to hate orcs.”

Fíli looked to Kíli.

“We know-”

“We did not mean-”

“I know.” Balin waved their words away. “He’ll come around.”

Bilbo had been drifting nearer to the fire (and further away from Thorin, which seemed like the safest option), and he had formed the question before he really knew what he was saying.

“What did you mean?” His words were quick, unsure. He kept flicking his gaze between the three Dwarves- his fingers fidgeted with the buttons of his waistcoat. “About- Thorin.”

A great, crushing weight suddenly seemed to settle over his heart: a squatting, devouring _blank_ of things he _should_ know. Or perhaps should have known. It hurt to breathe.

Balin sighed.

“That’s a long, sad tale, laddie.” The old Dwarf’s eyes fixed on the fire, and he seemed to lose himself in its glowing flicker, even as the words beat out of him in a miserable rhythm. “But you’re in the company; you have a right to know. The tale of Thorin Oakenshield is the tale of every Dwarf. And it is a tale of lost hopes, and death, and destruction.”

“That doesn’t sound very cheery,” Bilbo muttered, before he could stop himself. Balin huffed a humourless chuckle.

“No, it is not. Well, it begins where it began for us all- with the coming of the dragon. Smaug descended on the Lonely Mountain in the reign of King Thrór, Thorin’s grandfather, and with fire and claw he took it for his own and made his bed in our home. We suffered terrible losses that day. Yet we still had a king, and our people were not without hope, for there was one last stronghold of the Dwarves left open to us.”

The fire spat out a spark.

“Khazad-dûm - or Moria, as you would know it- had lain empty for many centuries, and yet it was our home, the place made for Durin’s folk. It seemed only right that we take it back. King Thrór made the first attempt.”

Balin’s face grew closed-off and grim.

“But the orcs had got there first. They had defiled our halls, infested them with their filth and decay. They sent back Thrór’s companion with the news we dreaded- they had murdered our king, and taken our home for their own.”

Bilbo had not expected the pang that went through him at Balin’s words. Still the old Dwarf spoke, his words conjuring up image after image of futile hope and deeds long-mourned.

“King Thráin called us to arms, and the strength of Dunland marched on Moria. On the plain outside the east gate, we fought to drive them out. But we were overreached.

And it was there that we learned the face of our enemy.”

Balin looked up, and Bilbo could see the hatred in his usually kind eyes.

“A great pale orc, covered in scars and full of hate for Dwarves. He sought to teach us a lesson. And he began-” Balin’s eyes slid closed in the painful remembrance, “- by beheading the king.”

There was a moment of total silence. Nothing cried on the wind; the fire was merely a glow of embers.

“That was the blackest day,” Balin said, his voice heavy with grief, “For our dead were beyond counting; too many to bury beneath the stone, as our maker intended. And Moria was lost to us forever.”

“You lost?” Bilbo asked. He had somehow not expected that.

“No, we won.” Balin shook his head. “Because of two Dwarves, who were called into their places earlier than any of us thought possible. One was Dáin Ironfoot, who was not even forty when he was made an orphan at that battle: he climbed to the gate of Moria and there he slew the pale orc. And the other…”

Balin’s gaze turned away from the fire at last, and found the shadowy figure who stood, looking out over the valley. Bilbo followed his eyes.

“I saw him as the battle ended,” Balin said, his voice now barely louder than a whisper. “Striding through the battlefield, shouting orders, with naught but an oaken branch as a shield on his left arm. And I thought to myself: there is one I would follow. There is one I would call “King”.”

Bilbo stared. Beside the fire, Fíli and Kíli shifted as though coming out of a trance.

Balin sighed.

“You should sleep,” He said, softly, to Bilbo. “Another hard day tomorrow.”

Bilbo nodded; his voice seemed to have been swallowed by the enormity of Balin’s tale. He slipped away from the firelight and crawled back under his blankets, and tried not to think at all.

~~~

The next day was hard, although perhaps not for the reasons Balin had assumed. Bilbo could not stop his mind from turning to the dark history of the Dwarves, of _these_ Dwarves, who all rode and laughed and joked at his side and gave not a single sign of the deep tragedy they had all faced. Again and again, he found his gaze fastening on Thorin’s back- Thorin who was not just grim and harsh, but exiled and bereaved and as unforgiving of the world as the world had been of him. It all made awful, terrible sense. Bilbo hated it.

He spent the next two days subdued and as near-silent as was possible to be, hunkered in his hood whenever a drizzle came down to soak them, otherwise keeping his eyes fixed on Myrtle’s ears and deflecting all attempts at conversation. The Dwarves, assuming it was mere homesickness, allowed him his sullenness, and merrily continued their own talk (even when it was constrained to complaining of the weather). In fact, Bilbo barely spoke two words until they came upon the River Hoarwell, when he could not help but exclaim in shock at the great roar of the water.

“Aye, it’s well up for the time of year!” Glóin said, grinning through his red beard. Bilbo felt the opposite of glee at the sight of spray launching into the air as the river smashed against its confines, but Gandalf was already urging Unawin down the bank and the Dwarves followed in a steady procession.

“Follow close to me!” Gandalf shouted over the noise, and Unawin took an unsteady step out into the water. Craning his neck, Bilbo could see that there must be a ledge of rock running the width of the river, for Unawin barely wetted his fetlocks (even though the chestnut horse snorted in suspicion with every cautious step). The ponies followed rather more calmly, and after an initial surge of fear, Bilbo accepted that he was unlikely to drown and he unwound his fingers a little from Myrtle’s mane.

They were half-way across when the procession came to a sudden halt.

“What’s the hold up?” Nori bellowed, three in front of Bilbo, holding tight to his pony’s reins (Hoppy hated water the most, and was proving his name apt as he jigged about on the ledge).

“The ford has crumbled,” Gandalf replied, “We shall have to come at it with a little speed, but the ponies will be able to jump across.”

“ _Jump_?” Bofur asked, as though he had never heard of such a thing. Bilbo’s insides had suddenly tied themselves into a complicated knot.

“Yes, Master Dwarf, unless you would rather swim!”

And with that, Gandalf wheeled Unawin about, gave a wordless cry of encouragement, and rode the horse towards the far bank. Even as Bilbo watched, the horse bunched his hindquarters up and took an enormous leap to land in a shower of gravel on the far side.

One by one, the Dwarves followed. As Bilbo crept closer to the edge, his nerves became ever more stretched, until he feared he might, in fact, prefer swimming after all.

“Come on, Master Baggins!” Gandalf called, and Bilbo started to say that he’d really rather get off and take his chances when Bofur came up behind him and gave Myrtle a firm slap on the backside with a cry of, “Get!”

With a great lurching and a shout of, “Look up!” From Glóin, Myrtle launched herself forward and leapt the gap in the ford. Bilbo looked up and gripped on tight with every muscle in his body, and then they were all of a sudden on the bank and the right way up, and all the Dwarves were laughing at the expression on his face.

Bilbo, to his own surprise, smiled too, and vowed to give Myrtle an extra apple that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably going to forget stuff, but here a few things to mention: The Dwarves' and Bilbo's riding songs are mine own, but 'The Cat and the Moon' belongs to the Lord of the Rings Musical, it's my fave, etc. etc. As mentioned in my rant at the beginning, I have NO CLUE with regards to distances. Please, for my sake, just roll with it. I'm a tired student and I'm trying my best :'( Anyway, for the curious, the route I have chosen for the company cuts north-east straight after crossing the Brandywine Bridge and heads out through the wilderness between the North Downs and Weather Hills. They ford the Hoarwell just to the north of Trollshaw. My reasoning is that they should bloody stay off the road! Particularly with all the singing. I truly feel Gandalf's pain. As for the scene with Balin's tale, I can't remember where it belongs so I've chosen to have it here. As I said, I hope you can forgive me/roll with it. (07/04/17) I think it should all line up now!  
> Edited to add: I have tried to reconcile book canon and movie canon by having Thrór beheaded at Azanulbizar, and the Orcs stealing the map, key and Dwarven ring from his body. I hope that makes sense!
> 
> Also this is NOT normal for me to post another chapter this quickly. It's usually weeks/months between updates. You can find updates on the updates (as it were) as well as general fannish things on my tumblr https://www.tumblr.com/blog/itscooltobefanficy
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING, TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK I ALWAYS LOVE FEEDBACK.


	3. Stewpots and Pincushions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trolls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me, back again obsessively writing Bagginshield. If you're concerned with the general lack of feelings so far, it's OK. There will be feelings. It's just it's going to take a while to get there. For now, please enjoy the Troll drama :)  
> (Nope, no longer in the explicit realms of canon. Just so we're clear. Taking inspiration from canon, certainly, but not living there)
> 
> And thank you to every single person who's hit the kudos button, subscribed, commented, read this far... I'm under no illusions that your support is helping this endless outpouring of fic. And I'm hugely grateful. *Hugs*/*comforting gesture you would prefer*

That evening, they made camp beside the tumble-down remains of an old farmhouse. Gandalf had frowned at the sight, pronouncing that there had been a family living here not so long ago, but the shelter of stone walls was too alluring to resist, and even Gandalf had to admit that the remains of a roof were better than nothing at all. Bilbo helped picket the ponies in what must have been an old orchard a little way away, then sloped back to help Bombur with the cooking. The weather had stayed clear and fine; which was, as Dori had pointed out, a bit of shame, given that this was one of the few occasions they had cover. A gentle breeze blew through the gaps in the walls. All around the cooking pot, the Dwarves bickered and laughed. Gandalf did not sit with them, but perched on the old steps and puffed on his pipe, a stooped grey silhouette against the twilit scene beyond. The smell of soup gradually grew stronger, wafting over all their heads. The stars began to come out.

Fíli and Kíli got up to check on the ponies. Bilbo watched them go, wondering. He had learned (well, surmised, as was like to happen when you spent enough time with the same people) that they were Thorin’s nephews; and besides from fearing what would happen if they ever came into their inheritance (he had never met two people so skilled at finding trouble- or, if there was none to find, starting some), he was quite sure they were holding onto their disdain for him out of loyalty to their uncle. Bilbo had, if not quite made his peace with Thorin’s permanent dislike, then at least come to a working accord with it, but he rather liked Kíli and Fíli : they reminded him of his Took cousins, full of mischief and pranks, with a burning light of intelligence crackling through everything they did. He should have liked to be friends with them. So when Bombur handed him two bowls of broth and asked him to deliver them to Fíli and Kíli (“Without spilling it! I worked hard on that!”) Bilbo accepted them eagerly and got to his feet.

Darkness had fully descended as they had sat beside the fire: Bilbo had to watch carefully where he put his feet. He steadily picked his way down the short slope to the orchard, and was greeted by a soft whicker from May.

“Sorry,” He said, as the other ponies began to look up, “This isn’t for you. It’s for-”

“Bilbo?”

“Aye, it’s Bilbo!”

Fíli and Kíli appeared in front of him. A small frown was creasing Fíli’s golden eyebrows. Kíli, however, grinned.

“Just what we need!” He said, elbowing Fíli. Bilbo smiled a little awkwardly (the bowls were hot, and his fingertips were not enjoying the sensation) and tilted his head to one side.

“Yes, Bombur cooked it just-”

“Not the _soup_ ,” Kíli said, as though Bilbo were being slow, “A burglar!”

“Oh?” Bilbo could not help but feel suspicious. He did not want to end up on the end of one of their pranks; Óin’s ear-trumpet, for one example, had never been the same since.

Fíli gave a solemn nod.

“We have a problem. We’re meant to be looking after the ponies…”

“Only some of them are missing.” Kíli finished, and the grin slid off his face as he said it.

Bilbo eyed the pair of them. Then he put the soup down, because, _really_ , his hands were going to blister otherwise.

“Alright,” He said, cautiously, “Show me the- ah- scene of the crime.”

He followed the heavy tread of the two Dwarves between the trees until they reached the tree that Bungle and Daisy had been tied to. Only now, there was just a stunted apple tree, and no ponies in sight.

“See?” Kíli hissed, then Bilbo felt a firm push on his shoulder. He was propelled towards the tree. Closer up, he could see that the ropes securing the ponies were still hanging from the branches: they drooped down sadly, and when Bilbo ran his thumb over the frayed end he caught his breath.

“They’ve been snapped,” He said, alarmed, “Snapped clean in two!”

“Something big, then,” Kíli said. He sounded positively exhilarated at the prospect. Bilbo looked around, crept to the other side of the tree, and let out a gasp.

“What is it?” Fíli hissed, as Bilbo scuttled back behind the tree as fast as his legs could carry him.

Bilbo pressed a hand to his chest. All he had seen was a large, grey mass over to the left- but it had been _moving_ , and that was enough to scare the hair off the feet of any self-respecting Hobbit.

“I think- ah- I think it, was a, _Troll_.”

“You think?” Fíli asked, as Kíli instantly began craning his neck, hoping for a glimpse. “Or you know?”

“Well, perhaps it was a very small Giant,” Bilbo snapped. “I didn’t stop to ask.”

Fíli and Kíli shared a look.

“We’ll need to know for sure,” Fíli said.

“And neither of us can sneak up on them-”

“ _Sneak up on them_?” Bilbo spluttered, but before he could protest further, he got another firm push to the small of his back. He stumbled out from behind the trunk.

“Go on, then!” One of them hissed, and Bilbo looked around frantically.

“If you need us, hoot once like a barn owl and twice like a brown owl!” That was _definitely_ Kíli.

Bilbo gaped for a moment, wracking his brains. No memory sparked, no vision formed. Of course, it would be when he finally got into real danger that his ‘advantage’ (and really it was barely even that, more of an inconvenience, what with all the melancholy feelings and empty spaces in his mind) deserted him. Very well then, Bilbo thought, squaring himself up. He would just have to do as he saw fit. This was a _quest_ , after all. He had signed a contract accepting the possibility of evisceration, incineration, disembowelment and mathom-knew what else; surely a Troll couldn’t be as bad as _that_. Taking a deep breath, he ducked down and began scampering forward along the path of trampled vegetation that would hopefully bring him to their poor, stolen ponies.

Bilbo had not gone very far when he saw firelight glowing up ahead. He then swiftly turned white and threw himself on the ground, for only a stone’s throw away came a horrendous crashing and the squeals of frightened ponies as a truly enormous Troll, grey and lumpy and hideous, came stomping past. It was grumbling something to itself, although Bilbo could not make out the words, and it had May tucked under one arm, Diggle under the other. Bilbo nearly jumped straight back up in indignation. The sight of their terror was enough to galvanise him: his heart hardened to his own fear, and as soon as the Troll had moved past, he scrambled upright and scuttled along in the wake of the hulking creature. The firelight grew stronger.

“More mutton!” A frightening voice growled, and Bilbo ducked down in shock- there was not just one Troll, but _three_ , sat around an enormous cooking pot like living stone boulders. _Bickering_ stone boulders, as the one Bilbo had followed dumped May and Diggle into a makeshift pen and turned back to its fellows. “I’m sick of mutton!”

Bilbo hunkered down and swiftly hid himself amongst the bracken, pulling the damp-smelling fronds down to hide his face from view. His heart was pounding like a big bass drum; every snap of the fire and rustle of vegetation registered in his sharp ears.

“That’s not mutton,” The third Troll chastised, hitting the complaining one over the head with an outsized ladle. Bilbo noticed that it was wearing a truly disgusting piece of cloth slung around its midriff: he thought of his neat little apron back at Bag End and shuddered. “That’s _horse_. And you’ll eat what I cook for you!”

The victim of the ladle whined and subsided. Inside the pen, the ponies were silent with terror, flinching away from the Trolls’ every movement. To Bilbo’s horror, he could see Myrtle amongst them, her little ears pinned flat back; and in that moment he was certain.

Barely daring to breathe, he wriggled his way around the edge of the Troll’s encampment, squirming on his belly like a snake as the underbrush dipped and bowed over his head. The pen was not too far away, and as he drew closer he could see great knots holding the panels together: if he could only undo one the ponies would leap for freedom. But the cover of bracken did not reach far enough. He would have to come into full view, and if one of those horrible creatures turned around…

Yet another argument broke out, this time over the seasoning of the stew, and Bilbo saw his chance. His heart was hammering as he jumped to his feet and darted out, frantic fingers picking at the rope faster than they’d ever moved in his life. Myrtle pricked her ears and whickered at the sight of him- Bilbo frantically shushed her. The rope was stiff and the breeze kept blowing an awful stench into his nostrils, and with every second that passed he became more and more certain that he would be caught, and quite possibly tossed into that pot along with his beloved pony. It was therefore to his utmost surprise when the tangle suddenly gave under his fingers and the fencing panel swung aside; he barely had time to scramble out of the way before Hoppy had charged through the gap, his fellows at his heels, disappearing into the tangle of trees as a great cacophony of roaring voices broke out behind him.

“What’s going on?”

“What’s that?”

“Hi!” A great, crushing force closed around Bilbo’s midriff and jerked him into the air. Bilbo’s stomach lurched as the ground flew away beneath him; the Troll only peered down at him in fascination. “Look what I got!”

“That’s the little squirrel that stole our dinner!” The cook said, very offended.

“Pah!” Bilbo’s captor snorted. “That’s no squirrel! That’s- that’s- well, it ain’t a squirrel, you dolt.”

“What _is_ it?” The complainer murmured, creeping closer until its misshapen head loomed over Bilbo’s.

“What _are_ you?” The cook asked, formally, and Bilbo gulped. His voice suddenly seemed very small indeed.

“I’m a burglar- Hobbit! A Hobbit!” He frantically tried to cover his misstep. An identical look of confusion scrunched up on the trolls’ faces.

“What’s a Burglarobbit?” The first asked.

“No idea,” The cook said, looking stumped.

The third, the one who had moaned about mutton, licked its lips. “Can we _cook_ it?”

“NO!” Bilbo shouted. The Trolls stared.

“Why not?” The cook asked, sounding genuinely confused. Bilbo could not think.

“Because… Because…”

A crashing noise came from the trees, and Bilbo’s heart leapt.

“BECAUSE THAT’S _OUR_ HOBBIT, YOU PEA-BRAINED, UNWASHED CRETIN!” A Dwarven voice bellowed from far below, and Bilbo jerked his head down to see Glóin dash forwards and hew at the Troll’s ankles. Howling, the Troll dropped him, and suddenly the clearing was filled with Dwarves hefting axes and swinging swords, and the Trolls were yelling in dismay as their assailants roared battle-cries. Bilbo lay flat on the ground, quite winded from his long drop: Ori whizzed stones through the air; Kíli fired arrow after arrow; Dwalin was thrusting his fellows into the air whenever he could to enable them to attack the Trolls’ arms and faces. Gandalf himself was wielding his staff as though it were a sword, cracking whichever bits of Troll were available to him, and Thorin… Even from Bilbo’s distinctly uncomfortable vantage point, he could see that Thorin was simply terrifying. The Trolls did not stand a chance.

The breath finally back in his lungs, Bilbo leapt to his feet and promptly started scurrying out of the way (wishing he had a knife, as the feet and calves of the Trolls presented a tempting target), when a massive grey hand closed over his arm and wrenched him into the air.

“Lay down your arms!” The grumbling voice demanded, as yet another Troll seized hold of Bilbo’s legs. The third skulked behind them as the Dwarves all froze. To emphasise their point, the one who had Bilbo’s arms gave a light tug. “Drop your weapons, or it’ll be the worse for your Flurblabobbit!”

Bilbo could not think. His mind was a blur of sheer, immediate terror for his own skin. The Dwarves all stared, mute horror in their faces.

Thorin glared up at them. There was Troll blood on his tunic; Bilbo could see the greenish stain in the firelight. His thick fingers twitched on the hilt of his sword, as though he meant to resume the battle- but then he made a wordless noise of frustration and thrust the point of his sword into the soft earth of the clearning. The others followed his lead. In a trice, the smallest Troll had them all gathered up and thrown out of reach.

“Good,” The cook said, in its most civil tone, “Now let’s get you bagged up. Roast Dwarf will be a rare treat!”

“Better than mutton!” The third cackled, and the Trolls’ laughter seemed to echo like a rockfall.

The Trolls were as good as their word. They bagged Bilbo first, dropping him in feet-first, then tying the string tightly around his neck. The Dwarves were next, and although they fought, the Trolls were bigger and stronger and soon had them trussed up to lie beside Bilbo. Gandalf, however, eschewed a sack.

“I am only an old man, Master Troll! I could not hope to overpower you. Let me keep my dignity and leave me out of a sack!”

The Dwarves wriggled in indignation at that, although Bilbo was not sure whether they took exception at Gandalf’s assertion that he was helpless (he was a _Wizard_ , for mathoms-sake!) or that he had only fought for his own dignity. It was probably both.

“Didn’t feel very old when he whacked me!” The complainer grumbled, but the cook waved his hand magnanimously and Gandalf was allowed to remain free, although his hands were bound. One of them stumped off to find a tree branch for a spit. The Dwarves stayed in mutinous silence, and Bilbo’s stomach churned. What could possibly be done?

“Roast Dwarf,” The cook crooned, “Seasoned with a little pinch of sage, oh yes…”

“Sage? What do you want sage for?”

Bilbo glared at the Troll who was to blame for all this- that one had scooped him off the floor just as the battle was turning. Now that the immediate, mortal threat had passed, he found his mind beginning to work properly again, and what he saw did not please him one bit.

“Sage is the right thing to put with dwarf!” The cook insisted. “Brings out the flavours lovely.”

“No, you want _rosemary_ with dwarf,” The other countered.

The argument continued for what seemed like an unfeasibly long time, and Bilbo found himself concluding that trolls were stubborn enough to give Dwarves a run for their money, which was indeed saying something. And as quarrelsome! They only stopped when the cook once again brought out his ladle.

_As argumentative as Dwarves…_

Something was niggling at Bilbo, deep in his mind. Something from before? Instinct? He could not say. If only he could bring it closer, so he might see what it was...

“I’ll start with this fat one,” The cook said, “He’ll be delicious.” His hand reached for Bombur as the Dwarves yelled threats and insults.

Bilbo’s stomach lurched in horror, and he jumped suddenly to his feet.

“Not him!” He cried in a shrill voice. Every eye in the clearing turned to stare at him. Even the Dwarves (perhaps hoping he had a clever plan) fell silent.

“Eh?” The cook bent down to peer at him, one hand still hovering above Bombur’s rotund form.

“You don’t want to cook him, first,” Bilbo said. He was not entirely sure where he was going with this, only that if he said nothing he was quite certain his friends would be eaten. “He’s got- worms. And anyway-” He lifted his voice over the Dwarves’ furious exclamations, “You’re going about this all wrong!”

“He is quite right.” Gandalf suddenly stood up, too, and the Dwarves fell from roaring to furious mutterings. Bilbo ignored them, and only looked towards the Wizard: to his heartfelt relief, Gandalf gave him the smallest wink. Bilbo found the courage to carry on.

“Yes,” He said, looking the big Troll straight in the eye, “The _correct_ way to cook a Dwarf is to… Is to…”

“Yes?” The Troll asked, hushing its companion’s disbelief even as the Dwarves cried out in horror. Bilbo thought he heard Thorin cry “Traitors!” and tried to ignore the flinch of his heart.

“Boil them!” Gandalf pronounced, just as the Hobbit blurted out, “Skin them first!”

The Troll’s brow furrowed.

“So do I skin them, then boil them?” It asked, and Bilbo, eyeing the wicked knife sticking out of its belt, hastened to speak.

“ _No_ , no. You boil them first, then skin them. Makes it easier, see?” His voice was breathy from fear, but the Troll was nodding.

“I do see,” It said, solemnly. “Thanking you both kindly. Go on then!” It roared at its fellows, “Get that water boiling!”

Whilst that small piece of conversation had been taking place, there seemed to be some kind of scuffle going on in the ranks of the Dwarves. As Bilbo sank to the ground (his knees were a bit wobbly), Fíli kicked him in the ribs.

“It’s a feint, isn’t it?” He hissed, and Bilbo gave the tiniest of nods. A rustle went through the Dwarves, then, at last, silence. As Bilbo looked up, he idly noted that the sky was growing lighter.

The heat from the fire grew and grew, until it washed over them and turned Bilbo’s cheeks ruddy. Whenever he looked over at Gandalf, the Wizard was sat with his back against a rock, eyes fixed on the horizon. The Trolls squabbled and snickered as the great vat of water began to bubble, and Bilbo’s certainty in their plot began to wane. The Wizard had joined in his plan of attempting to stall the Trolls; but Bilbo had only done that to give Gandalf an opening to rescue them! Now, it seemed that he had set them up for the truly horrible fate awaiting them in the cauldron. His heart sank lower and lower as the stars began to disappear.

“Right,” Grinned the cook, when the water was hissing steam like a pipe venting smoke, “Which one shall we cook first?”

“I want the fat one!” Squealed the complainer, but he once again received a whack from the ladle as he reached out for Bombur (Bilbo readied his initial plan, which had been a speech about worms in the tubes).

“ _I_ decide,” The cook said, firmly, “After all, it’s _I_ that discovered the secret to cooking them proper, right?”

“Cooking them proper?” Sneered the third Troll. “I’ve never _heard_ of boiling Dwarf!”

“And _that’s_ why-” Started the cook, shaking his ladle in a pointed manner; but they never got to hear precisely what the troll was about to say. A shaft of weak, pale sunlight snuck over the treetops, and its effect was instantaneous. In between one blink and the next, the Trolls were struck dumb. They turned with horror in their faces towards the east: their skin began to flake and turn grey. To Bilbo’s astonishment, before his eyes, the Trolls were frozen where they stood as they turned to irrevocable, implacable, stone.

“Well!” Said Gandalf, brightly, getting to his feet. “You do have a habit of running into trouble, I must say!”

“The- the Trolls!” Bilbo stuttered. Gandalf laughed, retrieving his staff (when had he freed his hands?) and giving the closest statue a rap on the ear.

“They will not trouble us, or anyone else, any more, I think! Trolls turn to stone in the sunlight, never to return.”

There was a brief moment of silence, before the Dwarves broke out into loud cheers. Bilbo could only gape. Gandalf came over to them and began helping them out of the foul-smelling Troll sacks, and they began to examine themselves for injury and exclaim loudly over the narrow miss they had just escaped. Bilbo was sorely bruised himself, but aside from that had come through unscathed: all the same, he winced as Fíli and Kíli came up behind him and clapped him on the back.

“Excellent work, Master Baggins,” Kíli grinned. “Outwitting those that have no wits?”

“Impressive,” Fíli finished, with a nod.

Bilbo smiled weakly at them, and finished attempting to wipe the dirt from his face. Then he flinched on instinct as an axe came soaring towards them; Fíli plucked it from the air with one hand and smiled as sharp as a blade.

“Onwards!” He called, and the other Dwarves took up his cry. In the silence that followed, Bofur spoke up.

“That’s just wonderful, lads, and I’m all for rousing enthusiasm this early in the morning, but where have the ponies got to?”

~~~

It took them the better part of an hour to round up the ponies (who had scattered far and wide across the old farm and all required attention to soothe them after their ordeal), and another hour to eat breakfast and pack up their supplies. Thorin spent nigh-on half that time (Bilbo was counting) alternating between glowering at the Wizard and exchanging dark looks with Balin. The third time, Gandalf noticed the Hobbit looking between them and snorted.

“They are offended because I used words of the Dwarves’ secret mining language,” He explained, “That was why I unbound my hands, so that I could alert them to our strategy of delay. However much it may have aided them at the time, though, Dwarves are a secretive race, and they do not take kindly to an outsider knowing overmuch of their customs.”

“You know,” Bilbo remarked, dryly, staring back at Thorin’s expression of fury, “That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”

~~~

They mounted up and rode on through the forest, sticking to the cool shadows cast by a great shelf of rock. Gandalf spoke more of Trolls, of their habits and avoidance, whilst Bilbo joined in with Bofur as he tried to rhyme “Thin-bone” with “Shin-bone”. They had just got to the part about Nuncle Tim when there was a shout from further up the column.

“Hi! Didn’t you say we were looking for a Troll-hole, Gandalf?” Glóin had reined Dibble in, and as Bilbo drew alongside he could see a great gaping hole in the rockface, where flies buzzed sluggishly in the open air. Gandalf joined him, before sliding down from Unawin’s saddle.

“Aye, Master Glóin. This must be where they hid during the day.”

“Until we came along!” Ori cried, and the Dwarves laughed and nodded. Bilbo himself was not quite as at ease with their brush with peril, but he joined in the chuckles readily enough and bore Bofur’s slap of congratulation with good grace. Gandalf paid them no mind, however, looping Unawin’s reins around a nearby branch and beckoning the company to join him.

“Who knows what may be found in here,” He warned, when they had all gathered behind him, “Watch where you step!” And he called a light into the end of his staff (a trick that never failed to amaze Bilbo) before striding into the dark hole.

The smell was quite appalling. Bilbo instantly clapped a hand to his mouth and nose and tried not to retch as clouds of flies swarmed up at the disturbance. Even the Dwarves coughed a few times, despite what Bilbo thought was a stubborn refusal to show any physical weakness at all. His eyes adjusted faster than his lungs, however, and what he saw almost distracted him from the noxious air.

At the back of the cave, light glittered off the gleam of gold and silver. Chests were stacked hither and thither, overflowing with coins that Bilbo did not recognise: half-crescents and decahedrons and mathom-knew what else. By his side, the Dwarves were all of an excitement at the sight, rushing over to examine the contents of the trove, but Gandalf ignored them and crossed to the furthest, darkest corner, the tip of his hat being squashed ever further down by the ceiling. Bilbo, on instinct, followed- and found himself standing next to Thorin. It swiftly became clear what had attracted Gandalf’s attention: a rusty, cobwebbed rack was pitched over on its side, and in its openings were weapons the like of which Bilbo had never seen. Gandalf stooped down and drew up a straight sword that was nearly as long as Bilbo himself. Bilbo was close enough to see his eyes widen.

“These swords were not made by any Troll!” He exclaimed softly to himself. On Bilbo’s left, Thorin too had picked up a blade; only his was curved, like a leaf, with a handle that looked to be made of bone.

“No,” Gandalf continued, leaning his staff against the wall and sliding the blade from its sheath, “These are of Elvish make.”

A spasm passed over Thorin’s face, and Bilbo thought he would throw the sword back on the pile, but Gandalf’s face grew stern.

“You will not find a better sword!” He said, and it seemed that Thorin could see the truth of that, for he did not cast down the weapon, but instead drew out a few shining inches and gazed down on them. Bilbo thought (although he knew next to nothing of swords) it looked frighteningly sharp. Thorin cast a glance at Gandalf, then turned away. He did not spare anything for Bilbo. Gandalf re-sheathed the straight blade, then buckled it to his belt.

“Come, Master Baggins! Let us not linger any longer.”

Bilbo nodded, and turned to follow: but then he froze. A memory surged up from the depths of his mind to consume him, memories of a sword, a dagger, a _letter opener_ …

He dropped to his knees and began to frantically search through the sword rack. There! With trembling fingers, his hands closed around a hilt that he knew, that had been his and it had seen him through fire and darkness and a frenzied wash of gold…

He let out a gasp as he drew it forth, and the leaf-shaped blade, just long enough for a very small fellow like himself, came into view.

“ _Sting_ ,” He breathed, and the name fit itself into his mouth like it belonged there.

“Ho! Bilbo!” A summons drifted from the entrance. “Are you turning into a Troll down there?”

Bilbo huffed out a laugh, then got to his feet and climbed his way back into the light.

“What have you got there?” Bilbo blinked in surprise, and turned to face Thorin, who was staring at the small sliver blade in his hand.

“Ah- I thought I might need one. A sword. After the Trolls.”

The Dwarves chuckled, and even Thorin snorted. Bilbo noted that the curved elvish blade was now slung over his back.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said, “That is no sword.” The customary expression of dissatisfaction was written across his handsome face. “But, then again, you are no warrior.”

Bilbo shrugged a little.

“Well, I cannot deny that. But-” He offered a half-smile and tried to ignore the sinking sensation in his chest, “-At least when I go back to Bag End, I can use it on the letters.”

There was an outbreak of mirth at Bilbo’s words, and Glóin clapped him on the shoulder.

“Aye, lad, that’s-”

But at that moment, Kíli came dashing into the clearing, and no trace of a grin was on his merry face.

“Someone’s coming!”

The mood changed as swift as a storm. Thorin reached for his sword; Gandalf straightened up and barked, “Stick together!”

Bilbo could hear it, then, something rushing towards them with great speed. He pulled Sting from its sheath and gripped the hilt firmly. The Dwarves hustled in front of him; Kíli nocked an arrow to his bow and Thorin drew his new blade as something big and impossibly swift crashed between the trees and stopped in front of them. The Dwarves all cried out in alarm, but Gandalf straightened up with relief in his face.

“Radagast!” He exclaimed: Bilbo craned his neck in excitement, for Radagast the Brown had been one of the other Wizards Gandalf had mentioned on their long trek around the Weather Hills. The company lowered their weapons and Bilbo was finally able to shove between Dori and Óin to gaze upon one of Gandalf’s fellows.

He was certainly an odd-looking chap. He was tall (though not so tall as Gandalf), dressed in patched and trailing robes of drab brown, with a mass of wild white hair squirming out from underneath a lopsided headdress (beside Bilbo, Nori nudged Bofur and murmured “Watch out, or he’ll nick your hat!” To hastily-muffled guffaws). And, to Bilbo’s utter astonishment, he was riding in a truly extraordinary chariot, woven together from branches, and pulled by the biggest rabbits Bilbo had ever seen.

“Gandalf!” The other wizard gasped. His eyes crossed as he spoke; his whole being seemed to vibrate with alarm. The rabbits thumped their long feet, reacting to their master’s discomfort. “Fear! Fire! Foes!”

Bilbo looked around in alarm. Gandalf, however, crossed swiftly to Radagast’s side and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Calm yourself, Radagast,” He said, in a low voice, “And tell me what has alarmed you so.”

Radagast stared up at Gandalf, a pursed frown on his weathered face.

“Danger,” He whispered, eventually, “Terrible danger, Gandalf.”

Gandalf’s face grew grim.

“Ready the ponies,” He told the company. “I must speak with Radagast. Be ready to leave when I give the word!” And he strode off into the trees, the Brown Wizard skittering at his heels. Bilbo frowned after them.

“Well, bugger me. And I thought old Gandalf was queer!” Nori chuckled, and there was a general chuckle through the company; but Bilbo noticed Thorin, too, looking after the Wizards with mistrust written all through his expression.

Gandalf came striding back to them with deep lines etched into his brow and his pipe in Radagast’s hand.

“What news, Gandalf?” Thorin asked immediately, but Gandalf shook his head.

“Dark tidings from the east,” He muttered, “But we may yet be in time… Radagast, will you ride with us to the valley?”

Bilbo did not know of which valley Gandalf spoke, but the Brown Wizard shook his head vigorously.

“I must return, Gandalf, I must- already so much is overrun. And you know I have no patience with-”

But Gandalf cut him off with a censorious look, and Radagast coughed, adjusted his hat, and jumped onto his chariot.

“Good luck, old friend.” Gandalf said. He seemed more troubled than Bilbo had ever seen him; and, in Bilbo’s opinion, that surely meant that they all ought to be very worried indeed. He fidgeted with the straps of Myrtle’s girth, then put a calming hand on her withers, although whether it was intended to calm her or himself, he could not be certain.

Radagast had still not departed. He was staring at his rabbits, all of whom seemed to be in a frenzy of nervous excitement: stamping and twitching about in their traces, as though they were itching to flee. Bilbo felt a prickle, like a cold draught, sneak over the back of his neck. All of sudden, Myrtle jerked her head up, and she trembled where she stood at whatever scent she caught on the wind. Every pony in the company froze, too, and Unawin shied away from his tether and attempted to break free.

Before any Dwarf, Hobbit or Wizard could move, something else crashed into the clearing, something huge and foul-smelling and growling as loud as thunder.

“Du bekâr!” Thorin roared, and everything was a muddling rush of movement as the dwarves dove for their weapons and converged on the creature. Bilbo reached for Sting before he even knew what he was doing, but before he could leap into the fray the beast collapsed to the floor, felled by a cut to the throat from Thorin’s Elvish sword.

“A Warg scout,” Gandalf declared, his voice fell and furious. Bilbo felt a rush of fear as he stared at the huge corpse, its sharp, yellowing teeth still visible in its deathly snarl. “We are being hunted!”

“The ponies cannot outrun them,” Thorin said, grimly, and he hefted his sword in his hand. “We must stand and fight!”

“No!” Gandalf too had drawn his sword, but before he could say any more, the Brown Wizard had shaken the reins of his chariot with a snap. There was a gleam in his mismatched eyes.

“I’ll draw them off!” He crowed. Gandalf, if anything, looked even more exasperated.

“These are Gundabad Wargs, Radagast! They will overtake you and tear you to pieces!”

Radagast gave a grin, and Bilbo suddenly felt he had been given a glimpse of a very different Wizard indeed: one who was as old as the land itself; as unknowable and unpredictable as the weather filling the sky.

“These are _Rastabel Rabbits_ ,” He pronounced. “I’d like to see them try.”

~~~

They rode for the edge of the woods, and they had barely gained the treeline when a great howl came floating on the wind from the plains to the north.

“Ride!” Gandalf urged, “Ride, for your lives depend on it! Ride!”

The company were trotting, then cantering, and Bilbo clung on with all his might as Myrtle’s little legs jarred and jounced him in the saddle. Fear of the Warg pack lent him strength, though, and he did not fall off, though he had never cantered so far, nor in such haste.

They sprinted for maybe a mile and a half, until they had rounded a curve in the trees that hid them from the Hoarwell, then they eased the ponies back into a trot as the sun began to sink in the sky. Neither Gandalf nor Thorin called for a halt until it was nearly too dark to see, and then they retreated under the cover of the forest to make camp. There was no fire that night, and very little sleep for any. Every mind turned to the west, wondering, watching, waiting for their enemy to come upon them once more.

The dawn came, misty and silent, and they were back in their saddles before the birds started calling; only waybread to eat on the way, and although Bilbo despised the stuff (no joy in it at all!) he judged it unwise to complain. In any case, he did not have the time. Gandalf soon had them riding once more at a brisk trot: their surroundings slowly lightened, and every time Bilbo looked over his shoulder, there was nothing behind them but the edge of the forest in one direction and empty plain in the other. At the front of the column, Thorin rode with Gandalf for a time, and Bilbo thought that sharp words had been exchanged- and though he had not overheard them, it gave him a strange feeling in his belly, one of deep foreboding. Thorin appeared to lose the argument (or at least be in danger of losing his temper), for he checked Albert sharply and rode beside Dwalin for the rest of the morning. Gandalf did not look back, but held Unawin to his course and did not slow. Bilbo began to hope that they might escape unscathed.

The afternoon wore on, and still they did not stop. At Thorin’s insistence, they began to dismount and walk beside the ponies for a way, then remount and trot on, in order to save their strength. Bilbo felt weariness in his very bones, but he did not speak, save to encourage Myrtle when he was astride her. A grim silence had enveloped the company, one of urgency and fear.

It was broken in the afternoon by a wild, eerie howling to the west.

“They have broken off their hunt!” Gandalf cried, and Bilbo frantically twisted in his saddle to scan the horizon behind them.

“Kíli, ride to the top of that rise and scout the surroundings,” Thorin ordered. His voice was harsh but not afraid. Kíli nodded and cantered away, up a small barrow to gaze over the country. What he saw sent his galloping back down again.

“I can see them. They are gaining fast. Ahead lies a field of moraines, we may lose them in there.”

“It is a slim chance, but we must grasp it!” Gandalf decided. “Now, we must be faster than ever before!” He caressed Unawin’s neck, then turned his head to the east and sprang away at a gallop. The ponies swiftly followed.

Bilbo could barely register anything other than his hands gripping tight to the reins, the rumps of Misty and Diggle just ahead and the fearful challenge to his balance; but he supposed that was all to the good, for the Orc pack on their trail did not bear long thinking about. The boulders Kíli had promised soon came into view, and it was Gandalf who lead them on a lurching path in between their rocky confines, running hither and thither as a hare runs before a fox. Behind them, the baying cries of the hunting Wargs grew steadily louder.

Suddenly, a zinging sound split the air and Bilbo cried out as something punched him in the back. For a few, awful moments, he was dangling over Myrtle’s shoulder, the ground lurching past with frightful swiftness, but by some providence he was able to grab ahold of her mane and right himself. The dwarves up ahead looked back to him and called his name in alarm, but Gandalf was already shouting for them to follow as he made a sharp turn into a steep crevice. There, he pulled Unawin to a halt and looked sharply around them.

“It is as I feared,” He said, grimly. “They have orders for our blood. We must stand and fight; the ponies will not last much longer.” Indeed, Myrtle’s flanks were heaving with short breaths, her coat lathered with sweat. Bilbo himself was trembling all over, although he paid it no mind. All his attention was behind them, on the danger that even now was rushing closer.

Thorin nodded. In one swift motion, he reached behind him and drew his sword. His blue eyes swept over the company; a strange expression was on his face. Then he urged Albert forward, so he face outwards down the chasm.

“Du bekâr!” He roared, and all the Dwarves took up his shout, until the narrow space seemed to ring with their war-cries. Bilbo closed his eyes, and his fingers sought the comforting steel of Sting. Then he rode to join the Dwarves, and waited to face down the enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Distances in Middle Earth continue to fuck with me. I'm doing the best I can (and THANK YOU to all who gave suggestions on the last chapter, particularly Texas Dreamer and Chaoticmom who pointed me in the direction of some amazing resources). Anyway hope you enjoyed that? I tried to pay homage to both the book and P.J. movie in the Troll scene, because in the book Gandalf was also hanging around, enjoying the show rather than storming in at the end like the Drama Queen he is. I haven't used much original dialogue (I don't think? I don't know I'm tired and my brain is fuzzy). 'Pea-brained' was a tribute to the epic insults of Ron Weasley.  
> ANYWAY THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN YOU ARE ALL AMAZING.


	4. The Hospitality of Elves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is once again the middle of the night? Will I ever learn? No. Anyway it's the middle of the night because I've been going back and editing the last three chapters so most of the mistakes should now be ironed out? I don't know I'm too tired.  
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR SUPPORT AND KUDOS AND COMMENTS AHHHH I CANNOT BELIEVE IT

Bilbo was so tired that as he walked, he was afraid he would fall asleep on his feet. Whenever he closed his eyes to blink, they seemed very reluctant to open again; with every step, his muscles burned. Visions of soft beds and hot baths flickered before his half-closed eyes. His feet ached from the rocky path. But still he trudged on.

“Bilbo? Bilbo!”

Bilbo made a very undignified sound and started awake. Then he realised that the cloak he was carrying in his arms had dropped free, and was now trailing in the dirt. He frowned, and began to gather it back up, as Myrtle nudged hopefully at his arm. Bofur (for it had been he who shouted Bilbo in the first place) turned to yell something up the column.

“Hi, Gandalf! How much further? Our Hobbit’s dead on his feet!”

Bilbo was _not_ , in fact, dead, although the Dwarves had been in considerable fear for him: but the Orcish arrow that had nearly felled him from the saddle had only pierced his pack, not his person, and the subsequent fight had not involved any of them- so, miraculously, he had escaped injury once more. Indeed, he was merely suffering from exhaustion of two sleepless nights, and not a little frustration that he was now forced to carry half of his burdens in his arms; for the new hole torn in his pack was gaping wide and could not be patched.

“It is not much further, Master Dwarf, but we must keep on!” Gandalf’s voice was brusque, drifting between the narrow ledges of rock. Bofur pulled a sympathetic face, but once again clucked to Lily and began to follow the Wizard.

“Keep on,” Bilbo muttered, as his feet resumed their weary rhythm, “Keep on…”

His mind turned backwards, to the events of the afternoon. Down in the crevice, with the howls of the Wargs shivering in the air as the Dwarves raised their voices in answer, Bilbo had been mighty afraid- but not as afraid as he had expected, and the solid hilt of Sting in his hand had lent him courage, even as the blade had filled the shadows with queer blue light. He had ridden Myrtle up on the heels of her companions and stared at the opening, watching, waiting, for foes from beyond. In an instant (at least, it had seemed like that to Bilbo), a great black Warg had appeared, with a snarling Orc astride it- the Dwarves had readied their weapons and hefted defiant insults- Bilbo had prepared himself for yet another battle, one that he might not pass through unscathed- but no! The air had been rent by the clear, sweet cry of a horn and the thunder of many hoofbeats on the open plain. The Dwarves had frozen; then Thorin and Gandalf flung out a hand at the same instant to say, “Wait!”. Bilbo could make out the expression of hatred twinned with sudden fear on the face of the Orc as an arrow flew from hands unseen to pierce it through the throat. The Warg fell a moment later.

“Back!” Gandalf urged, softly, and the company had obeyed, although Thorin never took his eyes off the edge of the crevice. All around them (and above, for it seemed the Orcs had gained the top of the rock shelf in an attempt to surprise them from above) came the terrible sounds of a battle: the yelping of Wargs, the death-cries of their masters and the musical singing of arrows. Bilbo had not cowered, even when the sounds drew horribly near. Instead, he clutched Sting tightly, and stared all about him, hoping not to be caught unawares.

“Quickly now!”

Gandalf had sought to use the skirmish as cover for their own escape, and the Dwarves followed him down the narrow pass without hesitation, the ponies’ hooves making little noise compared to the ruckus without. Bilbo was caught up in the middle of the column, which was well, for he did not have the nous to steer Myrtle down the narrow path. Gradually, the awful sounds had faded. Gandalf finally drew to a halt and they had all dismounted.

“Where does this path lead, Gandalf?” Thorin had demanded. He had put away his sword, much to Bilbo’s relief.

“To safety, I hope,” Gandalf answered, rather obtusely. “We must press on; the light wanes fast at this time of year. Stick close together, and always keep one eye behind!”

“Wait!” Ori had cried, before the company could move off, “Master Bilbo has an arrow sticking out of him!”

Bilbo had jumped in alarm, twisting round in an attempt to see the offending object, but Óin came stumping over and barked at him to hold still. After a tense moment, the grey-haired Dwarf had sighed with relief.

“It’s the bedroll that’s skewered, not our Baggins!”

Bilbo had been mightily relieved, too (and comforted that his senses could still be relied upon to inform him of such an injury), and after a swift rearrangement of his pack and possessions, the company had begun trudging onwards, down the shadowy path.

The sun was sinking fast now, and it was growing cold. Bilbo buried one hand in the thick fur of Myrtle’s withers to stave off the chill, and tried to stay awake.

“Not much further,” He told himself, “Not much further, now…”

The path was all in darkness when there was a commotion up ahead: the Dwarves had rounded a corner and were gasping and muttering in a manner that was remarkably like the old wives of Hobbiton picking over a fresh piece of gossip. Curious, Bilbo shuffled up behind them, craned his neck to see past the rumps of their ponies- and his mouth fell open.

A valley was laid out before his eyes: a valley of such astounding beauty that it nearly stole the breath away. Later, when Bilbo tried to describe it, he found that words failed him; he could only say that it was exactly as a valley ought to be, and it felt- well, it felt like taking the weight off your feet after a long day, or the kettle whistling on a sunny morning, or the gentle smile of a friend long unseen but always welcome. It felt like arriving home. As he looked, he felt such a feeling of peace and tranquillity blossom inside of him that tears stung his eyes.

“The valley of Imladris,” Gandalf announced, and the relief was plain to hear in his voice, “Or, as it is more commonly known-”

“Rivendell.” Bilbo spoke without thinking, but he could not have remained silent when faced with this sight. For there were the sculpted domes and fluted columns of the Last Homely House East of the Sea, turned gold in the light of the setting sun, with the spray of the waterfall catching the light like flecks of molten metal. The home of the elves. They were really here.

Unfortunately, the others were not so pleased.

“I swore I would not set foot here,” Thorin growled, rounding on Gandalf, his face as stormy as Bilbo had ever seen it. “I _swore_ -”

Gandalf was having no truck with the Dwarf’s fury, however.

“Indeed you did, Thorin Oakenshield, but we passed the borders some time ago! And need I remind you that we have a map we cannot read, and ponies sore in need of rest, and a Hobbit who has come as close to death over the past two days as any seasoned warrior? A respite would be welcome for us all! Or perhaps you would rather I had fed you to the Orcs!”

Thinking of Thorin’s intransigence, Bilbo wondered if the Dwarf would not have preferred to take his chances on the battlefield, but Thorin gritted his teeth and, after a moment to master himself, argued no more. It was plain that there were no other choices open to them, and, Bilbo admitted to himself, had they insisted on turning back he might have burst into tears there and then. As it was, he fixed his eyes on the spires of Rivendell, and resolved not to look away until they stood at the gates.

“Now then,” Gandalf continued, “This is a situation that requires diplomacy, discretion, and no small amount of tact. Which is why-” Here he gave Thorin a significant look, “- You will leave the talking to _me_.”

And so the company of Thorin Oakenshield picked their way down the slopes of scree and linden tree, and came at last to the House of Elrond. It was very quiet: the only sounds were the ponies’ weary hooves on the stone path, the rustle of their burdens and the sound of evening birdsong. Bilbo fancied he even heard a nightingale amongst the melodies. But he was soon distracted: as they drew nearer to the bridge to the gate, Bilbo began to notice elves in the windows. Without exception, they stared down at the company with undisguised astonishment. The Dwarves glared back. Gandalf ignored them all, and simply kept on walking, until they were at last all stood on the stone courtyard before a set of great, sweeping stairs. The ponies whickered.

“Mithrandir.” A tall, dark-skinned Elf inclined their head from their vantage point. “What brings you here?”

“We seek refuge, and the counsel of Lord Elrond,” Gandalf said. His voice became deeper, more stately, even as he lent like on his staff like an old man.

“Lord Elrond is not here.” Another voice answered; to their left, a pale, dark-haired Elf came trotting haughtily down the steps. Disdain was written so clearly into his expression that Bilbo bristled. Gandalf frowned.

“Will you not at least give sanctuary to our poor beasts of burden, who have carried us through many perils and have done nothing to deserve your scorn?” He said, and now his tone was angry.

“Gandalf!” Thorin hissed, but it was too late. A third Elf had come down to the courtyard, their black hair bound behind their head, and an expression of curiosity on their angular face.

“I shall relieve them of their burdens, and care for them as though they were mine own, Mithrandir. It has been long since we have had ponies in Imladris! I have missed them.” The Elf smiled as Gandalf passed Unawin’s reins into their hands. “Come, Master Dwarf! I swear they shall be cared for.”

Bilbo had no patience with the Dwarves’ reluctance: he clucked to Myrtle and led her forwards. The Elf’s eyes widened as they settled on him. Bilbo could not make out whether they were a ‘Master’ or a ‘Mistress’, and resolved not to make any missteps in that regard before he could be sure. He settled on holding out Myrtle’s tether.

“Her name’s Myrtle, and mind that she has apples over carrots. She prefers them.”

The Elf nodded, surprise still writ in their face. “As you say, Master Halfling. Greetings, Myrtle. I am Feridin.”

Myrtle snuffled at the long-fingered hand, but seemed unperturbed by her new handler; and the sight was enough encouragement to persuade the Dwarves to give up the reins of their ponies, too. One by one, Feridin led them away, out of sight around the path. The pale Elf did not look pleased by this.

“As I said-”

“Lord Elrond is not here, yes.” It seemed Gandalf could have as little patience with elves as he had with Dwarves. “But if he is not here, then where is he?”

The pale Elf hesitated, but before he could offer them more rebuttals, a clear horn call cut the air- one that Bilbo recognised, and it set his heart racing. The Dwarves whirled around to face the gateway behind them. The sound of many horses riding together thundered against the steep cliff, and they came into view an instant later: a column of many riders, dressed in golden armour, riding on grey horses, all cantering towards the gate in perfect unison. The Dwarves froze. Then Thorin barked out a command in Dwarvish; there was the metallic slide of weapons drawn, and Bilbo found himself jostled to the centre of their formation, surrounded on all sides by axes and swords, and wondering, in a very uncomfortable way, how this was going to end.

The riders entered the courtyard, and their leader spoke a clear word of Sindarin. The horses were steered to encircle the Dwarves; Bilbo looked frantically for Gandalf, and found him standing by the steps, a look of resignation on his weathered face. Another command from the Elf on the dark horse, and they came to a halt. There was no escape. Things might have gone very ill had the Elf not removed his helm, at which Gandalf cried out.

“Lord Elrond!”

Lord Elrond Half-Elven swept his gaze across the company. Bilbo ducked down a little, hiding himself behind Bifur’s tangle of hair. He could not rightly say why, only that there was a sense of terrible, overbearing power rolling from the Elf’s narrow shoulders; it set his skin to prickling. When he dared look up again, he saw a face that was somehow both aged and young, with eyes that glittered like pools of starlight and hair falling in shadows down his back.

“Mithrandir,” Lord Elrond acknowledged. His gaze, however was set on another. “What brings you here, and with such… unusual companions?”

Thorin glared, but Gandalf shouldered his way between the ranks of elvish warriors to stand beside the company.

“May I present the company of Thorin Oakenshield.” Gandalf bowed his head respectfully. The Dwarves did not move. “They have passed through many perils to stand before you this day.”

“I see. And what do thirteen Dwarves hope to find in the valley of Imladris?” The Elf-Lord’s tone was inscrutable.

“Respite, and your counsel.”

Bilbo barely heeded Gandalf’s words, for in that moment Lord Elrond had finally looked upon him and he was frozen, caught in the silvery light of an ancient gaze. The Elf’s face changed, almost imperceptibly, at what he saw.

Another sharp word of Sindarin, and the warriors retreated. Lord Elrond swung down from his horse and looked long and steadily at Gandalf.

“I welcome you all to Rivendell. It has been many years since Dwarves walked in this valley.”

Thorin’s lip curled; Bilbo recognised it as a sign of his temper fast slipping away, and winced.

“Do you ask why?” The King growled. The bitterness in his voice lay in the air like poison. Lord Elrond, however, appeared unperturbed.

“The bitter history between our races is known to all, Thorin Oakenshield- but you are no less welcome for it. Indeed, I knew King Thrain of old, in the days when he used to travel these lands.”

“Indeed.” Thorin’s disbelief was plain. “He made no mention of _you_.”

Bilbo thought this rather rude (not to mention unwise, given that they were outnumbered significantly), but felt it was best to keep that opinion to himself. Lord Elrond turned away from the Dwarves and uttered a handful of words in Sindarin, as the pale Elf came trotting up.

“What is he saying?!” Glóin rumbled, hefting his axe. “Does he offer us insult?!”

Bilbo huffed in exasperation, but Gandalf got there first.

“No, Master Glóin. He is finding you food.” The Grey Wizard seemed to be at the very ends of his patience; his eyes flashed as he gazed sternly upon them all. Glóin seemed a little abashed.

“Oh. Well, in that case- lead on!”

The pale Elf sniffed. As they trooped off up the stone stairs, Ori’s voice drifted up from the back of the company.

“Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a bath…”

~

There was, as it turned out, the chance to bathe. After they had been shown to rooms that were, frankly, as dark and dismal as any troll hole, and told that there would be a meal when they were clean, their guide led them through the winding corridors to a room on the far side of Rivendell. Bilbo was simply _itching_ for a hot bath- opportunities for cleanliness were few and far between in the wilds, and washing piecemeal in freezing streams had become the norm- but when the Elf pushed open the door, his companions were dismayed.

“Have Elves no decency?!” Óin barked, as Bilbo peered around the jamb. The room was high-ceilinged and bright with lamplight, and presented the most wonderful sight of a score of tubs set around the walls, with clean linens set aside for drying. The Dwarves, however, were not pleased.

“I had heard of the Dwarves’ strange desire for privacy.” The Elf gazed down at them with undisguised distaste. “But you are in the realm of Elves, and _we_ have no need to be ashamed of our bodies. I shall leave you to bathe as you see fit.” And he turned on his heel and swept away. Bilbo gawped after him. Anger at his words scorched the inside of his chest. How dare he disparage the company like that! Why, every Dwarf was worth ten of him! His fuming was interrupted, however, by Nori pushing the tall door shut.

“Sorry, lads,” He grinned, “But it looks like we’ll be taking turns.”

Fíli and Kíli dove on him immediately and began wrestling for the door. Bilbo glanced over to find Thorin’s eyes fastened on the ceiling in an expression of experienced long-suffering.

“Now, now,” Balin said, hastily, before the scuffle could become a full-blown fight, “I’m sure we can think of a better solution than that! Now, Nori, let us in, if you please- Dori, you have your pack- hand the lads some rope? And Fíli, boost Kíli up to that hook over there.”

And before Bilbo could open his mouth to say that he didn’t mind waiting, the Dwarves had set about constructing a rig of privacy screens, using little more than towels, rope, and some very strong knots. The prospect of a bath seemed to have lifted all their spirits somewhat, and the grim mood that had enveloped them all lifted as the room was filled with what Bilbo thought looked rather like his Sunday wash, hung out to dry.

“Here, Bilbo, you have this one-” Bombur directed him to a tub sequestered at the end, but before Bilbo could duck behind the white wall, Thorin’s voice brought him up short.

“Wait.”

Every eye turned to him- Fíli (with Kíli perched on his shoulders) stopped dashing about, and silence fell.

“We say nothing to any of the-” Here, Thorin used a guttural word of Dwarvish that Bilbo strongly suspected was very rude indeed, “- and go nowhere alone. Stay vigilant.”

Bifur asked a question, although Bilbo could not decipher the meaning. Thorin clenched his jaw and glowered.

“Who knows what goes on in the mind of a Wizard,” He replied, and the Dwarves looked to him with expressions of consternation.

Bilbo found all of this rather dramatic, but he had enough sense to keep that opinion to himself. Instead, he bobbed a little on the spot, then coughed.

“Might we be excused for our baths, now? Only, I want to examine my bruises.”

Thorin almost smiled.

The silence broken, the Dwarves all dispersed, chattering, to their cubicles, and Bilbo finally slipped into his own. The steam wafted invitingly off the water (even if the tub was so big that he was going to need to step on his bundle to climb in), and he quickly undressed before sliding into the water. It was sheer bliss. After lying still for a sufficient period of time, he began to examine himself all over for the evidence of his adventures. As he had suspected, he had several spectacular bruises: including one impressive specimen that spread, purpling, up his lower back (from when the trolls had dropped him, he thought), and several others scattered around his limbs that were already fading to yellow and brown. He admired the collection for a while, before reaching for the small, white bar of soap and beginning to scrub himself in earnest. His skin finally pink and tingling, he lay back and listened to the idle talk that drifted up from the Dwarves all around. It was as content as he could remember feeling for a very long time.

Eventually, however, he remembered how hungry he was, and decided that it was probably time to get out. After a bit of scrambling, he was able to slither out of the tub, and hastily set about drying and dressing before he grew cold. He suddenly realised, as he was pulling a shirt over his head, how long his hair had gotten: down to his shoulders, and not likely to be cut any time soon. He supposed there was nothing to be done. At least he did not have a beard to deal with.

“Is the, ah, main thoroughfare decent?” He called.

A chorus of “ayes” met his words, and Bilbo moved the linen aside. He had not brought his pack with him, only a change of clothes, which was a shame, for he had spotted a bench on their way over that looked a very pleasant for a pipe, but as it was…

“Are you out, Master Baggins?” Dori’s voice came floating from his left. Bilbo frowned in confusion.

“Yes?”

“Would you do me the very great favour of passing my pack? I seem to have left it outside.”

“Of course,” Bilbo answered, finding the pack laying against the wall. “Where are you?”

“Third on the left. Much obliged.”

Bilbo carefully slung the pack under the linen barrier (with his eyes fixed on the ceiling at all times), then retreated.

“Did anyone think to bring any oil?” That was Glóin’s gruff voice.

“I did!” Both Dori and Bofur answered. Bilbo was not entirely sure what kind of oil they meant.

“I have a little sunflower oil in my pack?” He answered. The Dwarves broke out into roars of laughter.

“Might as well put sunflower oil on Nori’s beard, all the good it does him!” Ori cried out, and there was a fresh gale of mirth (and a cry of protest from Nori).

“ _Hair_ oil, Master Baggins,” Bofur answered him. “Keeps our beards in good condition!”

Bilbo nodded, then realised none of them could see him.

“Right.”

There was much about Dwarves, it would appear, that he had forgotten.

“As I was saying,” Dori said, loudly, “I have some in my pack. But you must wait your turn, I’m afraid. I shall braid both Nori and Ori; Mahal knows they need the help. Then Glóin, you may have the bottle.”

“ _I’ll_ be braiding Glóin’s hair!” That was Óin.

“Fíli, Kíli, you must oil your hair.” Bilbo was shocked to hear Thorin’s voice, somewhere on his right. “Your mother will skin me if you don’t.”

The brothers groaned in protest, but Thorin would brook no arguments. There was a splashing sound as somebody else climbed out of their bath: Bilbo dodged the little river that came sloshing over the floor towards his feet.

“Master Baggins?” Balin’s voice echoed outwards from the corner.

“Yes?”

“Not meaning to be rude, but would you mind leaving us for a time? It is considered disrespectful for those who are not kin to be present when we braid our hair.”

Bilbo felt very flustered: yet more rules and customs that he had not been aware of.

“I- of course. I’ll just- um-”

And, without waiting to finish his sentence, he fled out of the door.

To compound his discombobulation, an Elf was waiting for him in the corridor.

“Master Halfling,” They said, inclining their head. “Lord Elrond requests an audience with you.”

Bilbo blinked. He had the nasty sensation that his stomach had dropped to sit beside his toes.

“I see,” He said, eventually. “Now?”

The Elf nodded.

Bilbo could do nothing but follow. They traipsed their way through the elegant terraces and wide courtyards of Rivendell, Bilbo’s feet moving noiselessly on the smooth stone, until they reached a great spiral staircase that swept up the inside of a domed tower.

“Lord Elrond awaits you above,” His companion said, then stepped aside to allow Bilbo to pass. Bilbo nodded his thanks, before starting up the steps that would take him to his audience with the Elf Lord. He was fairly sure what this would be about, and he was not looking forward to it one bit.

“Master Baggins.”

He emerged onto the topmost level to be greeted by Lord Elrond. Although his words were courteous, he was eyeing Bilbo with an expression that fairly made the hair curl. Bilbo felt like a tadpole, or a fish, wriggling on the end of a hook. He was therefore mighty relieved when Gandalf rose from the central table and stepped to his aid. The Wizard, too, looked refreshed: although he had not joined them in the baths, the mud and grime had been wiped from his countenance, and his posture was less stooped than before.

“Hello, Bilbo,” He said. Bilbo did not think he was imagining the note of warning in his tone. He settled on nodding up at the pair.

Lord Elrond did not speak for a long moment, but continued to regard Bilbo in that discomfiting manner, until Bilbo was fit to snap. At last, the Elf Lord spoke.

“Gandalf tells me you know of what has befallen you.”

Bilbo looked sharply at the Wizard.

“Lord Elrond is an Elf of great scope and power,” Gandalf answered, “He sensed something from the moment he laid eyes on you. Your secret is safe with him.” This did not put Bilbo at ease. Gandalf continued, apparently oblivious. “He has seen much and knows of more, and he has the gift of foresight.”

“Wonderful,” Bilbo answered, rather dryly. Gandalf’s mouth twitched. Lord Elrond, however, did not react, save to finally remove his piercing stare.

“The gift of foresight I may have,” He said, his voice measured, “Yet when I look upon your company, I see naught but shadows. Tell me, Bilbo Baggins, why would this be?”

Bilbo screwed up his nose, rather in the manner of speaking to an unpleasant relation who wanted to know entirely too much about his business.

“I don’t know,” He answered, shortly.

Lord Elrond’s slanted brows drew together slightly.

“I am sure your leader has forbidden you to speak of your quest,” He said, “But Thorin’s mistrust is heedless. I mean you neither harm nor hindrance.”

Bilbo could feel an eyebrow raising.

“He is not _my_ _leader_ ,” He replied, rather stiffly, “And I think his mistrust is perfectly justified, actually!”

Bilbo had wondered if Gandalf might stop him; cut across him, or redirect the conversation, but a glance at the Wizard showed only the slightest hint of restrained mirth in that lined face. Bilbo seized his opportunity. Before Lord Elrond could make his reply, the fury and frustration that had been plaguing him for months finally found an outlet.

“You have accepted us into your home. All well and good. But you have then shown us nothing but discourtesy and disdain from the moment we crossed your threshold!” Bilbo’s chin jutted forward in indignation. “Quite frankly, the rooms you have given to us are not fit for a beetle, never mind thirteen Dwarves! And the Elf you directed to assist us has been abominably rude at every opportunity. Never mind that Thorin is a King, I would not treat… I wouldn’t treat the Sackville-Bagginses in this way, no matter how many silver spoons they might try to make off with!”

Lord Elrond’s expression quirked, but Bilbo plunged on.

“And, to top it all off, you summon me here to poke your nose into _my_ business, even though I cannot see how it would concern you. Although, I might say the same for _all_ of those above Middle Earth. Thinking they can chop and change my life as it suits them! And never mind how this old Hobbit might feel. No, as long as it serves them, they can do as they please!”

“And what do you think would please them, Master Hobbit?”

A new voice broke out: a voice that was like cool water on a bleached summer’s day, or birdsong that welcomes the sun as it rises. From behind a pillar emerged a mighty Elf, clad all in white, with her pale, gleaming hair caught up in a silver circlet. In the lamplight, she seemed nearly to glow. Bilbo felt, all at once, very small indeed.

“I- I don’t know, my Lady.” He bowed his head. “I-”

“Peace, Bilbo Baggins,” She told him, and at once he felt a blanket of calm settle over him. The beating of his heart eased; he breathed more softly. “And heed the Lady Galadriel. The Valar watch over all of Middle Earth.”

Bilbo shook his head vigorously.

“But I am only one Hobbit. Just a small fellow, who had lived out all his days.” His voice rose again. “What could they possibly mean-?”

The Lady raised one white hand, and Bilbo fell silent. He felt wrung out and overwrought with it all, and now an Elf-Queen was standing before him, as lovely as the dawn, and telling him that the makers of the world had an interest in him! He could hardly bear it. But the Lady spoke again, and now her voice was as soft and tender as a mother speaking to a child.

“You have travelled far, and suffered many hurts. But do not think the Valar do not care for you. They have granted you a boon, not a curse.”

Bilbo looked up, and was ashamed that his eyes were full of tears.

“Then why does it feel so wretched?” He asked. “Every time I look at them I feel such foreboding- oh! I wish-”

The Lady looked on him with such kindness that he was brought up short. Her words fell on his ears like the ringing of a bell.

“They are not doomed, Bilbo Baggins, and nor are you. Go now, and think well on what I have said.”

_They are not doomed_.

Bilbo bowed, so as to hide the fact that he had begun to weep in earnest, and choked out his thanks.

“Come now, my dear Hobbit,” Gandalf said, “Let us go down to dinner.” And together, they climbed down the stairs, leaving the Lord and Lady in the tower above.

When they reached the bottom, Bilbo leant against the wall, and hastily wiped away the evidence of his outburst. Gandalf stopped and looked back at him; his expression was sympathetic.

“Who was that?” Bilbo managed. “The- the Lady?”

“The Lady Galadriel,” Gandalf replied. His voice was weighted with reverence. “The Lady of the Golden Wood, as the smallfolk call her. She is one of the oldest and greatest of her kind.”

Bilbo shook his head at the absurdity of it all. He scrubbed the heels of his hands across his face one last time, tugged his waistcoat straight (three of the buttons missing, now), and stood up proper.

“There. Will I do?”

Gandalf snorted.

“Hobbits and their propriety! You will do, Master Baggins. Although it might be best not to mention who you have just spoken with to Thorin, or any of the company. The Dwarves have long nurtured a deep mistrust of the Elves of Lothlorien.”

“Is there anyone the Dwarves don’t mistrust?” Bilbo wondered, dryly. Gandalf tilted his head from side to side, and Bilbo laughed a little.

“All the same, Lothlórien sent no help when Moria fell to Durin’s Bane. Nor did they fight against the Orcs at Azanulbizar.”

Bilbo nodded his understanding (although he could comprehend only a third of the specifics), before falling into step beside the Wizard once more. His stomach, finally free of nerves and Elven interrogation, began to growl rather loudly.

“We are nearly there. Ah! In fact, just through here-”

“Bilbo!”

“Aye, it’s Bilbo!”

The Dwarves were seated around two long tables, platters of food spread out before them and all practically glowing with cleanliness and good cheer. Bilbo’s heart lifted at the sight. He hurried over, and squeezed himself onto a bench (it was a rather tight fit), avoiding as best he could all the curious looks. Thorin was seated at the end of the table, and he was not smiling; rather, he was trying to catch Bilbo’s attention, but before anything could be said, Lord Elrond appeared at the back of the dais and came down towards them.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” He said, and the company fell silent. Thorin looked slowly up at him. His gaze could not be described as friendly. Lord Elrond merely folded his hands together.

“It has come to my attention that you have not been treated as guests ought,” He said, “You have my apologies.”

Across the table, Dwalin’s mouth had dropped open. Similar expressions of shock were on all of the Dwarves’ faces. Óin was actually wiggling his ear-trumpet, as though he could not have heard right. Lord Elrond, however, continued as though nothing was amiss.

“New rooms shall be found for you, and henceforth your customs respected.”

There was a brief silence. Then Thorin nodded his head, once, in a very deliberate manner. It was clear that this was all the thanks the Elven Lord was going to get- but that his stiff neck would bend at all, was, quite frankly, a miracle. Lord Elrond withdrew to the high table, and soft talk in Sindarin broke out as a harpist began to play.

“Bless my beard,” Bombur muttered. Bofur swore on something rather ruder.

Thorin’s face was still, schooled: but his eyes were alive with an emotion Bilbo had not seen before. When they fixed on him, he half expected to start colouring up.

“Was this your doing?” He asked, in a low voice. Bilbo let out a small cough, and shrugged.

“Ah, possibly. Pass the spring greens?”

“Master Baggins-”

Bilbo ignored it. Really, all this fuss over- well, something he would do for any friend. And, what’s more, fuss that was delaying a meal!

“Kíli, pass the spring greens? If I don’t eat within the next minute I’m certain I’ll fade away!”

Kíli passed the greens, and the Dwarves’ mutters gradually returned to their normal volume (a dull roar, but Bilbo was getting rather fond of it). Bilbo ate with rather more ferocity than usual, and if that was to distract himself from the feeling of sharp blue eyes that had glowed with feeling, then nobody had to _know_. Indeed, the meal was rather peaceful (besides the myriad complaints the Dwarves had against Elvish food), and the singing didn’t start until he had eaten his fill, which was a relief. Dwarves clambering about on tables was never good for the digestion.

All the same, as Bofur led a rousing round of “The Man in the Moon”, Bilbo took the opportunity to study the new braids the Dwarves had created whilst he had been trapped with Lord Elrond. Fíli and Kíli were still the only pair who matched- and even then, imperfectly, for Kíli was significantly lacking in the beard department compared to his brother- with fiddly lines of plaits draping through their long hair on either side of their faces, fastened with gleaming silver clasps. The rest of the Dwarves were all wildly different, although most had chosen to keep the designs Bilbo was familiar with: Bombur had rewoven the great loop in his beard, Dwalin had the grey in his moustache elegantly teased into knots and Bofur still sported his thick, curving braid. But Bilbo noticed that Balin had elected for neat edging to his great fall of white hair, and Dori had given Nori three thick plaits that wove together in a style that seemed far more impressive than practical, at least to Bilbo’s inexperienced eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, Glóin’s steel clasps now gleamed bright, as though recently polished. If he didn’t know better, he would have said the Dwarves had gone so far as to make an effort for their present company, although that was, of course, absurd. Surely Elves did not merit their finery? He pondered the question idly until the meal drew to a close and they were shown to new, far more suitable quarters.

He found himself sat on a narrow, too-high bench beside Fíli and Kíli, steadily clouding themselves in a haze of pipe smoke. There was little talk. Bilbo found that he kept getting distracted, though: whenever either of the brothers moved, their hair beads swung and caught the light. Hobbit he might be, but even he could see they were beautiful things indeed, all bright silver and detailed engraving. Inevitably, Fíli noticed.

“You approve of the work?” He asked, balancing his pipe in one hand and holding one of his braids up to the light. Bilbo stammered something about impropriety, but Kíli gave him a (none-too-gentle) shove of reassurance and grinned.

“You have a good eye, Master Baggins. These are the finest workmanship.”

“Aye, made by our amad. She gifted us each a set on our seventieth namedays.”

“Your- amad?” Bilbo’s eyes widened when he realised. “Your _mother_? She made these?” He realised that it was impolite to touch, but he gawped at the intricate little object with fascination.

“She _is_ a jeweller,” Fíli said, with obvious pride.

“How marvellous! Can all Dwarves do this, then?” Bilbo asked. “Make things, I mean?”

“Nah,” Fíli answered at once, “Kíli’s fingers are too fat.”

Bilbo ducked automatically to avoid Kíli’s swipe at his brother.

“Just because you’ve broken every bow you’ve ever laid a hand on!” Kíli retorted, when his brother’s hair was sufficiently mussed. Bilbo noted the interaction: kith and kin, it seemed, could lay hand in a Dwarf’s hair at any given moment, without fear of causing offence. Fíli rearranged his braids, and sniggered, “just because you can’t grow a beard,” and his hair was messed up all over again.

“Ah, you still haven’t answered my question!” Bilbo interrupted, pointedly, as the brothers continued to bicker over his head.

“What question was that?”

Bilbo looked up in a hurry: Thorin had come to stand before them, his face inscrutable.

“Bilbo was asking about our crafts, unc- Thorin!” Kíli piped up, before using the distraction to sneak his hand across and give Fíli’s moustache a sharp tug. Thorin raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed. Walk with me.” Bilbo realised the order was directed at him, and he slid off the bench in a rather ungainly manner, pipe still clutched in one hand. He could count on one hand the occasions when Thorin had directly addressed him at all, and now it had happened twice in one night! Apprehension and other, queerer emotions began fluttering around behind his navel.

They walked steadily, away from the lamplight. The quarters they were now occupying were arranged around a covered courtyard: Bilbo looked up to admire the vines trailing from trellises and columns, filling the surroundings with a light perfume. There was a slight chill in the air, but it was clear summer had nearly taken hold. Thorin finally stopped beneath the circular opening in the roof, and Bilbo’s heart picked up.

“What did the Elf want with you?” Thorin asked. There was a note of demanding in his tone that Bilbo was not overly fond of; he drew himself slightly away and fixed his eyes on the circle of pale light cast by the moon (which was absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he was afraid Thorin might see the lie in his face).

“He wanted to know about the quest.” Well, that wasn’t really a lie. Lord Elrond _had_ asked about the quest.

“ _And_?”

Bilbo bristled.

“ _And_ I told him nothing. In fact, I gave him a piece of my mind. Although if this is the thanks I get, I might very well ask for it back.” He was aware that he was frowning quite disapprovingly.

Thorin stared for a moment, then his face softened slightly. For one wild moment, Bilbo thought he might even get an _apology_ ; but then Thorin looked away, and Bilbo inwardly snorted at such a silly fantasy. Instead, Thorin said,

“I have never heard an Elf admit to being wrong.”

Bilbo could not help the little gust of laughter that exploded out of him. When Thorin raised an eyebrow, Bilbo shook his head. “Ah, just remembering something my grandmother used to say.”

“What did she say?”

Bilbo was surprised for the umpteenth time that night. Thorin, however, sounded genuinely interested.

“She would say that angering a Hobbit was like cooking with your eyes closed.” When Thorin frowned, Bilbo elaborated. “You never quite know what will come out.”

Thorin’s lips curled upwards. “Indeed.”

_Was that all you wanted?_ Bilbo nearly asked, but he could not bring himself to say it. Instead, the silence drew out, broken only by the soft hoot of an owl somewhere close by.

“You wanted to know about our crafts?” Thorin said, quietly.

Bilbo had not expected that, either. He hesitated, wondering how to answer, before stammering out, “I mean- I was, but-”

“It is natural that you are curious,” Thorin seemed almost to be speaking to himself, before looking once more at Bilbo. “Aye, all Dwarves have a craft. A calling, as you might say.”

Bilbo desperately wanted to ask what Thorin’s craft was (assuming it was not arrogance, idiocy, or such a weak sense of direction that it could almost be viewed as a skill), but thought that might be considered rude, so he instead said, “Fíli and Kíli were showing me their hair beads.”

“Aye. Dís is considered one of the best jewellers in the Blue Mountains.”

“Your sister?” Bilbo asked, before wishing he could clap his hand over his fool mouth. He had never heard Thorin speak of his family- who was he to go poking his nose in?

Thorin, however, merely nodded slowly. “Aye.”

Bilbo had had quite enough. He bobbed awkwardly, then beat a hasty retreat, leaving Thorin in the courtyard, staring up at the clear sky as though longing for it to lift him up and bear him away.

~~

The next morning, Bilbo woke before the rest of the company. Sitting up in his bed ( _bed_ , none of that bedroll nonsense!), he blinked in the shaft of sunlight that had come to rest on his pillow. Birds were singing outside, loud enough to be heard over the rumbling growl of Dwarvish snores. Bilbo felt incredibly refreshed. A small smile emerged, unbidden. He got to his feet and went in search of breakfast.

Eventually, his nose led him to the kitchen: the smell of baking bread filled his nostrils, and his smile grew.

“Master Halfling!” An Elf with mahogany skin greeted him, teeth bright in their welcoming smile. Bilbo sketched a small bow on impulse, and was rewarded with a light peal of laughter.

“I come in search of food,” Bilbo said, politely. “I may be a little fellow, but frankly, weeks of waybread have been very unkind!”

“Let us see what we can find,” The Elf replied. “Mellon-nin, is the bread risen?” Beside the oven, another Elf looked up.

“Perhaps a little longer, Maered. There is cheese, though, and fresh flowers.”

“Will that serve, Master Halfling?” Maered asked. Bilbo nodded graciously.

“In the Shire, such a breakfast would be laughed at! But I thank you for your generosity. Might I wait on the bread?”

“Of course.”

Bilbo leant against one of the table legs (his eyebrows barely cleared the edge of the worktops) and chatted courteously with Maered. It turned out the Elf was most intrigued by Hobbitish cooking, and they found much to discuss in the way of puddings and the correct making of preserves. He left the kitchens some time later, with a large bundle of bread, cheese and the edible flowers the Elves were so fond of, and a promise to teach Maered how to make a plum duff.

The Dwarves were still sleeping when he returned, so he left a goodly portion out for them before taking his own breakfast to the bench he had spotted- why, it was only yesterday! Sat up there, with all the splendour of the valley laid out before him, he felt as content as if he were sat on the bench outside Bag End, watching the morning drape itself over the Shire. Nobody bothered him; indeed, nobody passed his nook at all. It was bliss.

So passed the hours in Rivendell. Bilbo did not spend all that much time with the company: instead, he preferred to wander the halls and corridors, investigating whatever took his fancy and talking politely with the Elves. Thorin would have strung him up by the toenails had he known, but Bilbo took care not to be obvious about it, and thus the peace was maintained. Anyway, he was normally asking the questions, not the other way around.

He got a fright, though, when he returned to their quarters that afternoon and found Dwalin charging towards him with an axe raised above his head. The undignified yelp and subsequent ducking behind a pillar sent a gale of laughter through the watching Dwarves, even as Bofur leapt out from his hiding place to meet Dwalin’s blow with the head of his mattock.

“Get your arse up, Bilbo!” Bofur called, “And let’s see what you’re made of!”

Bilbo spluttered, but Bifur had already seized him by the scruff of the neck and set him in the middle of the circle. Dwalin finally broke off his hammering (how Bofur was still standing Bilbo did not know) and roared with laughter.

“A Hobbit?! Takin’ up arms? That’ll be the day!”

Bilbo could see the funny side, but he pinched up his face in mock indignation and said, “I have two very good arms, as it happens!” He waved them to prove his point. Ori was in fits.

“I’ll spar with him.”

A voice cut across the general hubbub, and _Thorin_ stepped forward. Bilbo’s smile abruptly slipped off his face; he gulped. He could not decide what worried him more: that monster Elvish sword currently slung across Thorin’s back, or Thorin himself.

“There’s really no need-” He started to say, but Thorin silenced him with a look. It was not his _worst_ look, so to speak, but the humour dancing in his eyes actually made it harder to protest than if it had been mere fury.

“There is a need. Unless you intend to attack a Goblin the same way you would an envelope.”

Bilbo nearly swallowed his tongue. This was the Thorin he was familiar with: cutting, just on this side of cruel. All the same, the jibe provoked him enough to straighten up, and reach across his waist for Sting (which he kept with him at all times, as a comforting weight on his hip). Thorin merely looked at him. Orcrist- Bilbo had overheard Lord Elrond speak at great length of the sword’s provenance over last night’s meal- remained in its scabbard. This was not at all what Bilbo had expected.

“Tell me, Master Baggins,” Thorin began, “What is the point of a swordfight?”

Bilbo wrinkled his nose, and answered from the tightness in his gut, rather than his head.

“To not die, I would imagine.”

There was a ripple of laughter, but, to Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin nodded.

“Aye. A fight is no place for heroics, or stunts. As some-” He cast a sidelong glance that Bilbo thought was meant for Kíli, “- would do well to remember.”

“Right,” Bilbo quipped. “First piece of advice: try not to die.”

“Secondly,” Thorin continued as though he had not heard, “Never let down your guard.” And in a flurry of motion, the tip of Orcrist had come to rest against Bilbo’s sternum. Before Bilbo could even work out how all of that had even happened, Thorin withdrew, and commanded, “Now, put away your sword.”

“I thought you just told me-”

“I am teaching you not to die, Master Baggins. Put away your sword.”

Bilbo did as he was told, wishing that he could suffer this humiliation in private.

“Stand as I do.”

_Standing?_ Bilbo thought. _And here was I worrying for my skin!_

By the end of Thorin’s tutoring, however, he was wishing for a sharp blade and a swift end. He had thought riding was bad! Every part of his body, from his neck down to his toes, seemed to be aching. Finally, Thorin drew back.

“We are done here. I suggest, Master Baggins, that you work on your stamina. Fíli, Kíli, up! Let us see how slow you have grown since you last sparred with me!”

With matching grins, Fíli and Kíli leapt to their feet as Bilbo staggered over to a chair.

“That,” He huffed, to nobody in particular, “Was truly awful.”

Balin patted his arm consolingly.

“Never mind, laddie. You’ll do better tomorrow.”

Bilbo very much doubted that, but felt it would be impolite to say so.

They remained in Rivendell for three more days. Bilbo was subject to more lessons, and Thorin dispensed a great deal of dubious advice, such as: “Don’t attack anyone with a blade longer than your own” (which was pretty much everybody, including Thorin), “Keep your feet pointed towards your opponent” (as if he would have the time to think about what his feet were doing!) and “Never throw your sword” ( _Really!_ ) _._   In fact, Bilbo felt that the only thing he learned was that sword fighting was hard work, and learning to sword fight was both hard work and boring. Nonetheless, he persisted. After all, he did not have a great deal of choice in the matter. It also nettled him that Thorin seemed to find him a source of amusement, and he was therefore even more determined not to give up on the matter.

At that moment, however, Thorin was not present. He had retreated with Balin and Gandalf after their meal with the Elf-Lord, and none of them had been seen since. Now, the sky was as dark as pitch, whilst the moon shone so bright that it cast shadows through the windows of their quarters. Despite the lateness of the hour, no Dwarf slept. A sense of anticipation was in the air. All eyes were fixed on the door, waiting for the return of their King.

Nor was Bilbo asleep. He had already smoked his ration of pipeweed, so he was forced to occupy himself with fidgeting with his buttons and checking and rechecking his pack. The Dwarves, sat as still and silent as stone, paid him no mind. It was mildly fascinating to Bilbo that they could be both so patient and so quick-tempered, all in the space of minutes. None of them showed the least hint of boredom as the night wore on, yet a single word spoken in Sindarin without warning or explanation would set them all off like a firecracker!

“ _Dwarves_ ,” Bilbo muttered to himself, vexed, although whether he was vexed with their general natures, or the continued absence of one single Dwarf, was a mystery not even known to himself.

“Bilbo,” Bofur said, in an undertone, “Will you _sit_ _down_?” The quiet exasperation in his tone was plain. Bilbo huffed and stopped ferreting through his belongings.

“They’ve been gone a long time,” He said, by way of an excuse, and Bofur raised his eyes to the ceiling.

“Aye, and they’ll take the time it takes. You hopping about won’t hurry them up!” That was Dwalin.

Bilbo dropped gracelessly back onto the bed he had been occupying and began twisting his hands together. Bifur grumbled something on the far side of the room. Ori looked up from his knitting.

“No point in worrying, Mister Bilbo,” He said, with that slow inflection peculiar to his accent, “Thorin’ll be back, sure as mud is mud.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to say that it wasn’t just Thorin he was concerned about, but at that moment footsteps echoed down the corridor, and their two missing Dwarves appeared in the doorway. Thorin’s face was alive with a strange urgency; behind him, Balin appeared torn between joy and disapproval.

“We have all we need,” Thorin said, lowly, “I know where to lead us.”

A shudder seemed to ripple through the Dwarves. Several half-rose from where they were sitting. Thorin nodded. “We leave now. Gandalf stalls the tree-shaggers; we have a chance to leave unnoticed.”

Bilbo had stood up, too, almost without thinking. “But- where exactly are we going?” He asked. Thorin turned his gaze on him, and Bilbo nearly swallowed his tongue, although it was not from fear or shame.

“To Misty Mountains cold, Master Baggins.” Thorin answered him, his voice deep and full of emotion. “To Mirkwood, to the Long Lake. To the Lonely Mountain. We go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a long one. Let me know what you thought? All feedback=gift.


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